


And the Devil Will Drag You Under

by frogfarm



Series: Dexter the Vampire Slayer: Devil's Dance [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Dexter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming of Age, Ensemble Cast, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Gaslighting, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Manipulative Relationship, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 81,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26054362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: For over a decade, Dexter Morgan cut a swath through a mountain of Miami's finest murderers. Scarred forever as a child, rescued and trained by a cop on the edge, he delivered vigilante justice with a deadpan smile. Clawed his way to the top, to become the most successful serial killer in history.Until the fates intervened.Now for the past year, Miami Metro's top blood spatter analyst has been dancing to a different drummer. With Lumen at his side, as well as Slayer stepdaughter Astor, they've faced threats demonic and human; survived magickal curses intended to destroy their family, and laid to rest the ghosts of the past. But when a well-intended spell goes awry, Dexter finds himself thrown headlong into the strangest new world yet. A world with enemies at every turn...and the most unlikely allies. And where the desperate battle for truth may be the very instrument of his destruction."You are doing a great job in maintaining the suspense...a world of uncertainty and violence."
Relationships: Astor Bennett & Dexter Morgan, Dexter Morgan/Lumen Pierce, Faith Lehane/Debra Morgan
Series: Dexter the Vampire Slayer: Devil's Dance [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818931
Comments: 15
Kudos: 7





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Still one or two plot decisions to make before I can fill in the crucial missing pieces, then I can start writing. But I knew I could get at least this far without worrying about anything afterward that ends up getting changed. So just remember this naturally contains heavy spoilers for both previous books in the series; it definitely won't be posted as fast as the last one, and while this will obviously be darker in tone and content, I nonetheless promise as happy an ending as I can possibly provide. For most of the parties concerned, anyway. And if everything goes according to plan, you should see the first chapter posted before the end of the year.
> 
> * * *

This is not the first time this has happened.

In her storied and sordid career as a detective for Miami Metro, Debra Morgan has had to deal with more than one case of missing persons. No matter how many years on the force an officer might have under their belt, it's never a good thing. On those few occasions when the mystery is actually solved, the party in question usually turns out to have run off on their own. That's if they don't turn up dead. And when a person disappears, it's nothing more than a metaphor. Definitely not to be taken literally.

Not this time.

"Another medical emergency." Maria LaGuerta's normally attractive features are distorted in a grimace of pure disbelief. The click of her long and elegant fingernails striking slowly and repeatedly against her desk makes Deb think of a guillotine blade, ready to fall. 

"These things happen." Deb shows her hands to demonstrate how the matter is out of them, entirely. She can see Masuka through the blinds of Maria's office window, standing with Quinn at his desk as they discuss something. Both of them are occasionally sending worried glances over at the window.

"Not in this department." LaGuerta fixes Deb with a steely gaze. "Your brother is very good at what he does. But he's not indispensable."

"I'll let him know." Deb is very proud of how that came out. Not too calm. Not at all like a professional kisser of all things ass.

"You do that." LaGuerta's tone softens, along with her eyes. "I know it's been a rough year for him. For all of you."

Deb swallows and nods.

"But I need my team." LaGuerta sighs as her attention returns to the mountain of paper atop her desk; the scattered handful of open folders spewing out additional reams of dead trees. "Let's not do this again."

She'd like to be more optimistic, but the look on Masuka's face as she emerges from the lieutenant's office is light years away from anything resembling good. Given his incomplete knowledge of the situation, he's probably bursting with questions.

"I got nothing." Deb cuts him off before he can even start. Vince blinks behind his glasses, like an owl taken aback.

"Really?" Quinn shakes his head with a disgusted look. "So the quid pro quo's a no go?"

Deb bites down on her lip, trying not to chew it off as she stares at him. Joey seems only slightly unsettled as he patiently returns her gaze.

"Break room." Deb's already in motion.

She can hear Quinn rising, the two of them following behind. Whatever it says about her current state of mind, the last thing she's worried about is being ogled by the two horniest guys in the station. And top on her list of concerns is the break room being empty. Having to tell these two how very little she actually knows about whatever the fuck is going on.

Naturally, they arrive to find it deserted. Quinn walks over to the counter without a word, dumps the stale coffee in the sink and sets to making a fresh pot. Deb shuts the door as Vince takes a seat.

"So?" Despite his own gravity, Vince looks eager, almost excited. "Bearded Spock?"

"You --" Deb groans as her face falls forward into both her hands. "Fuck."

"I just want to know," Vince continues. "I haven't bought the tickets. I can take a rain check if things are --"

"Yes." Deb looks up at his expectant face and sighs. "As far as I know, you were right."

Vince says nothing. Just makes a fist and pumps it down, once, with a look of triumphant vindication.

"So what happened?" Quinn sounds like a sports fan whose TV went out right before the winning play. "With -- you know --"

"Rita? She went home." Deb sits down at the table. All of a sudden she's feeling somewhat fragile. "We assume."

Quinn looks like he's dreading the answer. "And what about Dexter?"

"We don't know." Deb swallows. "Nobody knows."

"Do you think --" Vince hesitates, reluctant to continue the thought.

"No." It comes out more forceful than Deb would like. She takes a deep breath, keeping her voice low.

"I don't know, Vince. I've got no clue if he fucked off to whatever fucked up universe that Rita came from." Deb shudders to recall the numerous horrible reports she'd been given. "All I know is what they told me."

Quinn frowns as he pours a cup. "What'd they tell you?"

"Big flashy light show." Deb shakes her head. "She went toward the light -- she was gone. They turn around?"

She shows them her empty hands.

"So's Dexter."

  


* * *

  


It's been less than twenty-four hours since her brother supposedly vanished into thin air. Lumen's doing okay so far, but it's obvious the vampire is rattled as hell. Deb has to admit she'd be hard pressed herself to keep it together in that situation.

Assuming it's not complete and utter bullshit.

Except Astor and Cody both swear it's true. That right after alternate universe Rita disappeared through the portal that supposedly was there to send her home, they all realized Dexter was gone too. Harrison's not yet verbal enough to be much in the way of help. So Miami Metro is missing its best general forensic analyst and blood spatter expert. And the Morgan family -- relatively new to the world of monsters and magic, if not murder -- is missing the one thing that most binds them together. She can't imagine Lumen going to a parent-teacher conference during the day.

Deb's managed to cover for today at least. Any longer will require fast tracking the paperwork for paid vacation time. She's not worried about whether she can get away with it. The problem is having to do it in the first place. She's also not above playing dirty, but any evidence they can bring to the table is only going to raise more questions. Like having the kids come in for an interview. 

As far as the kids go, Harrison's doing just dandy. Occasionally calling for dada; clearly pleased at having both siblings back in his life. Cody and Astor, on the other hand, are each freaking out in their own quiet way. At least Cody is less traumatized than he might have been before having his mind blown with vampires and dead mothers coming back to life. But even as Astor is being an absolute rock of support for her younger brother, Deb can see all the subtle signs, the cumulative wear and tear of prolonged and repeated stress.

She doesn't blame the girl one bit. It's like every time you think your life has settled down, maybe even turned around, you're somehow surprised by yet another punch in the face. She'd thought dating a serial killer would be the worst it could get. And maybe it was. But this whole year has been one unending string of shocks both good and bad, a non-stop course of mental demolitions reducing what's left of her mind to so much rubble. Sleeping with a hot chick -- who turned out herself to be a multiple murderer. Finding out vampires were real -- and the hot chick a superpowered demon-killing machine. And being wrapped up in plastic by a psycho, again. Can't forget that. At least this one meant well.

After all that? Finding out your brother was the Bay Harbor Butcher all along?

Hardly seems like a drop in the bucket.

So all things considered, Deb thinks she's doing an okay job of staying calm. Except this isn't a case she can work on. She's stuck on her regular job. And normally she might be able to sit back and let the supernatural specialists deal with that side of things. If not exactly content. But she's definitely finding it more difficult to remain detached. Because after you get past the fact that we're talking about her brother -- however much of a borderline sociopathic fuckup he might be -- there's the inconvenient fact of Faith. Who hasn't called or visited. Not since Dana the psycho Slayer came and went, going behind her mentor's back to tell the truth to the mentor's would-be girlfriend about said mentor's murderous history.

Not like it was anything compared to the nightmare that was finding out about Dexter. But of course Deb found it unsettling, to say the least. Made worse by Faith's own silence on the subject; her continued radio silence even now. It's enough to make all those old insecurities come roaring back. Along with some fresh new ones.

The only upside is it's a slow day at work. The downside, of course, is that Deb's constantly checking her phone to the point of obsession, hoping for some sort of contact. By the time she walks in the door of her apartment that evening, her nerves are shot to hell and back again. The thought of alcohol doesn't seem like a great idea. After two pots at work, neither does coffee.

She sends Lumen a quick text: _ANYTHING?_ Then, trying not to feel too foolish, she busies herself making hot cocoa. From scratch, the way Dad used to. There's no condensed milk, but regular is fine. She's just lucky she has actual cocoa powder. But Quinn insisted on it for his mochas. He's such a girl.

She's stirring in more sugar when her phone dings. Picking it up, Deb reads the expected reply: _NOTHING._

She sets it back down, then jumps as it goes off in her hand. A little splash of hot milk laps over the side of the mug, briefly stinging her skin.

Her heart is fluttering like a dying butterfly. The caller ID is everything she was hoping for. And dreading.

"Hey." Deb swallows and falls silent. Waiting for a reply.

 _"Hey."_ Faith sounds almost perfectly neutral. _"Heard what happened."_

"You mean --"

 _"Been talking to Astor."_ The Slayer is calm, with a subtle yet notable chill. _"We got people on it. We find anything -- we'll let you know."_

"Oh?" Deb can't hold back. "Who's the royal we gonna be? Not you?"

There's no reply for a moment.

 _"She had no right."_ The barest tremor is audible in Faith's voice. _"You know that. She fucking took my words --"_

"I know you're pissed off." Deb's already regretting losing her cool. "About Dana. I would be too. But it's done, and as far as I'm concerned? It doesn't matter."

 _"It matters to me."_ A swallow, and a sigh. _"I gotta think about this."_

"It doesn't," Deb insists. "Christ! You're no Bay Harbor fucking Butcher --"

 _"What's that supposed to mean?"_ Faith sounds more suspicious than usual.

Deb swallows a groan and clutches her forehead. "My fucking brother --"

 _"Is missing,"_ Faith snaps. _"I know. And we're trying! But he's fucking gone, you hear me? No Google Maps, no psychics, no shamans gone off the face of the fucking earth! And I'm sorry --"_

The Slayer falls silent. Deb realizes her free hand is in a fist, nails digging into her palm.

 _"I'm sorry."_ Faith's quiet tone holds a finality that sinks into the pit of Deb's stomach. _"I wish I could do more."_

"You could be here." Deb almost breaks on that last word. She stares at the skin forming on the surface of her formerly hot cocoa; the cartoon alligators on the side of her mug wearing police caps and sporting toothy grins, promising to take a literal bite out of crime.

 _"I know."_ A pause too long. _"I'm sorry."_

The connection goes dead. Deb can feel her hand shaking as she sets the phone back on the counter. Refusing to hurl it out the window. Very mature.

She'd thought the idea of vampires was beyond crazy. Then came alternate dimensions. Alternate people. And that was just one way.

"Damn it, Dex..."

Deb stares down at her open hand. At the deep red indentations in her skin, persisting even as the color begins to fade. At the reality of herself: Free, unencumbered. And yet utterly trapped.

Helpless.

"Where the hell _are_ you?"


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dexter struggles to make sense of it all. Angel tries to do his job. Deb swears. And Astor dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went pretty smoothly once I got started. Here's hoping the rest will be in the same "vein". Har har.

Family.

It's all I've ever wanted.

For most of my life, I dreamed of blood. In my years as a forensic analyst for the Miami Metro police department, I saw literal bathtubs overflowing with the ruby red stuff of life. And in my alternate career as vigilante serial killer, I must have spilled enough myself to fill a swimming pool. At least.

All in nothing more than what I eventually realized was an attempt to reconcile the childhood nightmare of having seen my mother torn to pieces by men with chainsaws. But when I was finally offered the chance to reunite with my true family, I knew the price was too high. No matter what I might believe about the futility of doing good -- of saving my soul -- I couldn't imagine living in a world without my fantastically foul-mouthed foster sister. There was no way I could allow that to happen, let alone be responsible for it myself.

Even at the cost of my own brother.

I knew Brian would come after Deb once I refused to take her life. And so I'd trapped him; tied him up and bled him out with my own hands, with tears in my eyes. Somehow our connection remained secret, as far as public knowledge was concerned. I always suspected someone higher in the department had a hand in keeping things quiet. But I'd never been curious enough to confront Chief Matthews with my suspicions. It would have directly violated the first rule of the Code: _Don't get caught._

So I had moved on. Tried throwing my lot in along the way with a few promising individuals, only to wind up with me disappointed and them dead. Until one of them had taken advantage of my trusting nature -- oh, the irony -- and turned the tables. Murdered my Rita. Left my life a shattered wreck, and my crying infant son covered in blood.

But in the midst of that nightmare, I found someone who needed me. Someone I could trust. Who understood my darkness, even if she no longer shared it. And when the impossible happened -- when dumbfounded, deterministic Dexter learned the ugly truth and painful reality that magic was in fact very real -- Lumen returned at just the right time, helping me to face the dual challenges of parenting and of training a Slayer. Namely my stepdaughter, Astor. Still reeling from the shock of losing her mother, the two of us had clung to her sudden supernatural abilities like a lifeline. The thinnest of threads, but unimaginably strong. Maybe enough to climb back out of hell. 

Together, our little family had survived the appearance of a particularly cruel and vicious vampire who could have been Rita's twin. We'd driven her and her partner out of Miami, whereupon she'd delivered a parting curse intended to tear us apart for good. Instead it only strengthened our bonds; enabled me to once again atone, to whatever degree possible, for the sin of allowing Arthur Mitchell to murder my innocent wife. We'd sent Rita's counterpart back to her own universe, along with half the contents of my getaway bag: Enough diamonds, cash and knowledge to allow her and the children to start a new life. Lumen had been comforting Cody and Astor as they mourned their missing mother all over again, all while Harrison apparently wondered why everyone else was crying.

Then everything went black.

The moon is red.

I stare up at the night with an ache in my chest. The Miami skyline looks subtly different. Or maybe the fault lies in my own memory.

It feels like the same time of year. But the motel I was standing in with Lumen and the kids is now an industrial laundromat. My vampire partner and my three human children are nowhere in sight. And my dead brother -- a man I personally dispatched my own damned self -- has returned from beyond the grave. Far more disturbing is his murderous young sidekick, who despite her equally familiar face remains a total stranger to me. And worse.

Right now, I'm only sure of two other things. The first is that for whatever reason, this version of Astor hates me. Would have killed me when she first saw me, if not for her strength being that of a normal teenager. She has no Slayer powers that I can see. If anything, she's weaker than she ought to be; slightly scrawny next to the athletic girl I remember. And either she's untrained in fighting, or unable to keep her emotion from overcoming her training.

The second thing: Whatever else my dead brother might be, he's not a vampire.

It's not as though I'm an expert. More of a dedicated amateur. The necessity of having a Slayer for a daughter, combined with my own obsessive interests, led to the inevitable collision of all my separate lives. Maybe the resulting explosion has produced some interdimensional warping effect, hurling me into this strange new world.

But when Brian grabs onto me and hugs with all his might, so tight I can barely draw air, I feel the thump of his heart between too-prominent ribs. Hear the rasp and sob of his breath in my ear as I numbly return the pressure; feeling a stranger's blood on my hands, seeing Astor's hate-filled eyes burning into my own.

I can't breathe. I disengage from my dead brother's embrace and stagger over to the window, staring up at the blood-red moon like a lunatic of old. I can hear Astor's wordless exclamation of disbelief, her growl and growing diatribe that falls silent at a single word from Brian.

"Enough."

I can feel his eyes upon me. Boring between my shoulder blades, dissecting me to the core.

"Let him be. He's been through --" Brian gives a heavy sigh. "Who knows what he's been through."

"I'll put him through a wood chipper," Astor mutters.

"No." And now Brian is more forceful. "Remember the Code."

"You --" Astor sounds like she's on the verge of another explosion. I can hear her breath through her nose, imagine her staring at my brother with all the hatred she was just directing at me. I continue to gaze up at the moon and blink away tears.

Inside my head, I'm screaming. 

"Don't get distracted," Brian says. The subtle warning is apparently enough. There's no time for idle chatter.

We have a body to get rid of.

  


* * *

  


The body is not artistically displayed. Its presentation is haphazard, the execution slapdash at best. Clearly the crude hackwork of a rank amateur who cared nothing for his craft. Who gave no thought to the evidence he left behind.

Angel has to admit that it's nice when a perp makes his job easy. What's never nice is the bodies left in their wake.

"Batista." He flashes his badge at the uni on scene. The palefaced rookie looks like he's just been decorating the sidewalk with this morning's donuts. "What do we have?"

"Sorry, sir." The pale face is quickly turning a distinct shade of green under the sodium streetlamp. "Masuka can fill you in."

Angel watches the uni dash off with a sigh. At least there's someone else from the department around to see him make a fool of himself. Again. His feet are aching inside his too-tight loafers, and his head feels nude without his favorite trilby. Jamie's cat peed all over it, and they have no idea if the cleaners can salvage it.

"Get this clown shoe out of my face before I wreck his ass."

Doakes stiff-arms the reporter to one side, ignoring the man's expression of outrage. Angel knows that with the force those bulging arms can bring to bear, the budding Pulitzer winner is lucky to still have a chest. Still, it doesn't look good to have cops manhandling the fourth estate. Especially when the department's reputation is already in the shit.

"What's the story?" Doakes is glowering like an eighty-year old nun wielding a ruler, bristling like a porcupine with a cattle prod up its rear end. A classic Type A personality with rabies. In other words, everything is normal.

"No idea." Angel shrugs, hoping to placate the angry bear. "I was hoping Vince would fill us in."

"Where the fuck is that Dragonball reject?" Doakes snarls.

"Just remember, Sergeant." The aforementioned Vince Masuka emerges from the shadows of a nearby alleyway, holding up his smartphone with a look of solemn triumph. "You outed yourself."

"Shut the fuck up," Doakes shoots back. "My nephew watches that shit. And what are you creeping around in the damn shadows for anyway?"

"My job." Vince indicates his phone. "Found another body."

"Get some damn tape up!" Doakes barks. A pair of officers scurry forward to obey. "Show me."

Angel uses sheer size to intimidate and hold back the burgeoning crowd of onlookers. Vince is setting up floodlights, preparing to string thread in an attempt to paint a clear picture of the brutal events on display. Their main lab geek since Dexter's disastrous departure is still only pulling assistant's wages, with no relief in sight. Batista's gone to bat for his friend and colleague as far up the chain as he dared, but he doesn't dare try to bypass LaGuerta and contact Chief Matthews directly. That would likely be the end of his pension. Union or no, if the bosses wanted something to happen, they would no doubt find a way.

Dexter's death had closed a lot of cases. It had opened just as many, and sent the already shaky public image of Miami Metro hurtling straight into the slavering jaws of a savage press howling for blood. The backlog alone had crippled the department's ability to do basic police work even before Internal Affairs came and set up a permanent office in the center of the building. Now Angel despairs of even the simplest, most straightforward cases being brought to trial. One more Ice Truck Killer, and they can all kiss their careers goodbye.

"Chop job." Vince is showing Doakes a photo from his phone, indicating the matching original strokes along the dingy concrete wall. "Lot of unnecessary cuts. Panic, or rage. Maybe both."

"I'm telling you, it's fucking drug dealers." The sergeant's biceps ripple with annoyance, testing the tolerance of his tight-fitting polo sleeves. "Same gang that's been running coke on this side of town since last year."

"Why would coke dealers go after a priest?" Vince points at the body leaning against a nearby dumpster. With his clerical collar exposed, partially torn away, the dead man looks like a fallen angel sleeping off a bender.

"How should I know?" Doakes throws up his hands. "You're the fucking science guru. Figure it out."

"Sorry," Angel offers as they watch the other man stalk off.

"His karma is not yours." Vince sighs and removes his glasses, polishing them on the tail of his shirt. Angel misses the old Vince who told dirty jokes and wore Hawaiian colors. He can't remember the last time he saw the other man dressed in anything but black and tan. And almost never together.

"Don't worry. I'll handle him." Inside, Angel balks at having to play peacemaker yet again. And yet it seems his destiny to be the one who gets along with everybody. To keep his head when everyone around him is losing theirs.

The buzz of his own phone serves as an unnecessary reminder of the rest of the world. The name on the display, even more so.

"Chief." No time wasted. Angel strides away, in search of privacy. "What's up?" 

_"Just wanted to make sure you and your people have everything you need with these street killings."_ Matthews' voice holds a rare note of honest regret. _"I know things have been tight lately."_

"Yes, sir." Angel doesn't take advantage of the opportunity to badmouth Lieutenant LaGuerta, or her proposed budget cuts. Even the implication of dissatisfaction could mean his own head next on the chopping block. "I'll be the first to let you know."

 _"Good man."_ The gruff tone returns to its usual curt dismissal. _"Keep me posted."_

"Understood." He watches Vince measuring angles, tying off lengths of bright red thread. "Thank you, sir."

Angel doesn't know how to gauge the sincerity of his superiors, on this or any other issue. And the subject of money is always a touchy one. But even a few minor victories under their belt, a handful of red names on the board gone to black, would do wonders for morale. At this point, it seems they can't even believe in themselves. Let alone their supposed cause of fighting for justice.

"Going okay?" Angel cranes his neck, peering down an ant's-eye perspective of blood spatter thread. It makes him feel like a tightrope walker, balanced on the center in defiance of gravity.

"All square." Vince glances over at Doakes. Currently the sergeant is arguing with a gaggle of reporters, his calloused fingers twitching as though barely restraining themselves from throttling the entire group at once.

Angel hates asking questions. Still, it's part of the job. "Problem?"

Vince shakes his head as he dons his glasses. "He knows it's not drug dealers."

Angel very much does not like the sound of that. "Anything else?"

"Yeah." And Vince looks both confused and disturbed. "Not enough blood."

Angel frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You've got two bodies. A bit of fine spray here, from the padre --" Vince gestures at the wall behind him. "And the girl out front. Looking way worse."

"Face messed up that bad?" Angel winces at the memory. "I'd suspect jealousy as a motive."

"Point is -- where's the blood?" Vince directs a frustrated stare around the garbage-strewn alley. "No rain for it to get lost in."

"Try not to spend too much time in the lab." Angel sighs, already picturing the pile of requisition forms in his future.

Vince rolls his eyes. "See you at the bar?"

Angel rolls his right back. "Your turn to buy."

  


* * *

  


I don't think I'm ready to lend a hand with cleanup. But I'm awestruck before we even leave the laundromat. Despite his clear and obvious disappointment at the lack of artistic integrity involved, my brother has succumbed to sheer practicality when it comes to determining a different method of disposal. The body is simply folded in half and lowered carefully into a barrel full of powerful acid. With an airtight seal applied, the barrel itself joins hundreds of identical portable graves, packed into one of a thousand trucks or boats and destined for parts unknown. When the cartel produce so many bodies on their own, one more every few months is -- if you'll pardon the expression -- a drop in the bucket. It all goes into the same _sopa_ , or "the soup", as it's colloquially referred to.

I watch them roll their their nefarious cargo up to the dock and load it into the truck. Astor operates the forklift with a deft hand, Brian watching every step of the way. They've clearly done this before. I can only wonder how many times.

I know next to nothing about this world. Whatever makes it different from my own, my survival is more at stake than ever. One misstep, one wrong move or ill-advised admission could mean the end of Dexter as we know him.

If I'm going to die, I've always wanted to be cremated. I don't care for the notion of my remains joining some unknown number of others in a gigantic stew pot.

Brian and Astor finish hosing down their work area, tossing their aprons into the furnace for incineration. I'm still trying to formulate a cover story when I realize the best course of action.

"Do you have a car?" Brian's eyes are bright and alert. The unspoken question is all too obvious: _How did you get here?_

"I don't know." I shake my head, feigning confusion. It's not hard. I'm not really faking.

Astor is wearing a lighter T-shirt under her flannel, with flowers around the collar. I can see her bones too easily. She's far from malnourished, but I don't think she's eating enough. She notices me looking and responds with a glare of challenge.

"Enough." Brian sighs and scratches the back of his neck, looking back and forth between us. For a moment he appears utterly lost. Like when I told him I couldn't kill my sister.

"What's the last thing you remember?" His sharp gaze captures mine, probing for answers to an impossible mystery. "The very last thing?"

"I --" Best to keep it simple. "I don't know."

I shake my head, expressing my full lack of comprehension.

"I know you're my brother." I nod, letting my gaze wander and fall. "That's all I know."

"What else do you remember?" Brian sounds more intense, trying to hold back his emotion. "Who else?"

"I --"

"Harry?" Brian offers. He watches my face for any hint of reaction.

"The Code." I say it with a capital letter. Like I would say _Slayer_. If I felt at all safe broaching the subject of the supernatural. Or anything else.

Brian nods. Still, he doesn't seem reassured.

"You act like --" I force myself to put it into words. "Like I'm dead."

"Dexter --" My brother spreads his hands. "I don't know what's going on."

I'm sure that's true.

"But you're back. And right now?" Brian grabs my right hand firmly in his, holding up our joined flesh. "That's all that matters."

 _Not in my world,_ I think as I return the pressure.

"What about her?" I nod at a still glowering Astor. "Am I going to be safe?"

"Don't worry about her." Brian's smile fades. "But I wouldn't leave the house if I were you."

I want to pursue this, but it's apparently time for us to leave. The SUV parked outside is a perfect nondescript vehicle, its windows only lightly tinted to avoid undue attention. Astor darts ahead, settles into the front passenger seat and folds both arms over her chest, steadfastly staring straight ahead.

I don't mind. In fact, my mind is racing. Sprinting at maniacal speed on a treadmill of doubt as we exit the dirt parking lot, slowly cruising through the nighttime streets. Not a word passes between us.

I'm worse than lost. I know next to nothing about the magical forces that brought me here. And I have no clue how to harness them in order to return home. Or if this world even has magic at all. Without it, I'm stuck.

Commercial zoning thins, fades to residential and becomes suburbia. I realize we're heading into a more upscale part of town. Not anything so swank as the outer islands, the domain of entertainment gods and political parasites who struck it lucky until the mortgage comes due. But the blocks are irregular curvatures rather than uniform grids. And I can't remember the last house we passed that would have sold for less than seven figures.

We've come to a cul-de-sac with two drives marked PRIVATE. Brian takes the left, which winds gently up a slight incline and around a bend. I'm already adding ten percent on my estimate. That's before I see the house itself: A miniature castle in literal brick and mortar, the building and grounds in matching gothic styles. The circular driveway splits off into the garage, whose door rises at our approach without Brian lifting a finger, or pushing any buttons I can see.

Lights flicker on as we coast inside, coming to a stop. The inside is almost bare, apart from a handful of cleaning items on a shelf. Astor leaps from the car before Brian can speak, staring at me as I slowly climb out.

"After what he did." Astor's words drip with undisguised venom, a fury unable to find proper voice. "And you're gonna try to _save_ him."

I watch as she turns her back on us and stomps off. I'm expecting the screen door to come off its hinges. Instead, the knob appears to stick. Astor yanks it with ever increasing force, finally planting her boot in the frame in a hard kick to jar it loose. I can hear the hoarse sound of her breathing as she slams the door behind her, disappearing inside.

"I don't know what I did." I sound all too helpless. Like a child whose mother has disappeared. 

"Get some rest." My brother's eyes are still full of doubt. But the warmth is undeniable. "We'll talk in the morning."

The basic layout of the house isn't complicated, but it's larger than it looks from the street. From the unused space, I'm guessing there's a panic room in the center. Unfortunately the entrance is far from obvious. Which is kind of the point.

The spare bedroom is at the other end of the house from the master wing, on the lower level. Tastefully appointed. Dark and quiet. All I have to do is shut the doors, and not a trace of morning sun will disturb my slumber.

Has a vampire ever slept in this bed?

I'm running my fingers over the ultra-high thread count sheets when I feel a familiar glare. I turn to see Astor in the doorway. Her plush burgundy bathrobe is adult sized, making her look even smaller. Her face is freshly scrubbed, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail as she regards me like a statue.

"Is this like a game?" I hazard a guess. "You lose if you say anything that's not a swear?"

Astor doesn't blink as she cocks her head and raises her voice. "Fuck you."

"See?" I shake my head, affecting disappointment. "This is what happens when I'm not around. My sister has to babysit."

Astor looks ready to leap down my throat and strangle me to death from the inside. Instead, she turns and stalks away.

I have no idea how long I may be in this world. But one thing is certain.

I need to tread very, very lightly.

  


* * *

  


_Original Universe_

"This is somewhat irregular." The woman behind the desk doesn't seem too put out yet, but she looks easily provoked. "Especially if both parental figures are living in the home -- at least one of them should be here."

"I understand." Deb crosses her fingers and straightens under the watchful gaze of the secretary. All she can think is that if she got dressed up in this damn skirt for nothing, someone is going to pay.

She's thinking of Faith all the way through the parent-teacher meetings. Astor did a good job coaching her, and all their paperwork from the New Watcher's Council is in order, doctored and heavily bowdlerized. It looks like the school won't have a problem letting the girl skip ahead next year. All of this should ease Deb's mind. Instead it only makes her think more of the stubborn bitch who ran off and left her hanging when the shit got too thick.

If Faith were here, she'd have someone to vent to. Someone to bounce ideas off of; who knows this whole disappearing between dimensions bullshit is very real. But ever since Dexter vanished into thin air, Deb's practically been on her own. Lumen is only so much help, and Deb still can't help feeling hinky around the other woman because, hello. Vampire.

Not that there aren't a million other reasons for a bit of friction in Deb's relationship with her putative sister-in-law. Starting with the fact that Lumen and her brother had been vigilante killers before they were lovers, taking revenge on the men who tortured Lumen and held her prisoner. Add in that Dexter turned out to be the goddamn Bay Harbor Butcher, and it somehow wasn't as much of a shock to learn he was also stepfather to a supernaturally strong girl -- known to those in on the secret as a _Slayer_.

Which is what Faith is. As well as a stubborn bitch who ran off and left her hanging when the shit got too thick. All it took was a wayward student making the decision to spill Faith's secrets for her. Now her supposed girlfriend won't give her the time of day. All Deb can think is that they're probably no longer _exclusive_.

She can pick up Lumen's sheep blood on Thursday. That will take some of the pressure off of Astor, who still insists every night on "patrolling" the surrounding neighborhoods for supernatural activity. And that will ensure a steady food supply for another week, thus relieving Lumen of the temptation to feast on her human housemates. Not that it's an option. More a death sentence, now that Lumen's allergic thanks to her psycho stalker of an ex. It's just another reminder that this isn't easy for any of them. Except maybe Harrison.

Her phone rings while she's taking off her shoes. Deb very deliberately ignores it and refuses to care. It's only after she's cracked open a cold beer and started running a warm tub full of epsom salts that she allows herself to look at the call log. To her complete lack of surprise, it's not Faith.

She has to ask herself if she really feels like talking to the literal multiple personality girl who nearly killed her. Who made the poorly received decision to go blabbing about her mentor's dark past. And the answer, of course, is an unqualified yes. Because despite the creep factor, Dana means well. And right now, she's the one remaining connection Deb has to that world. The world of vampires. Of demons, and forces of darkness.

"Hey." 

_"Hey."_ Dana sounds just as tired as the last time they spoke. _"Nothing yet."_

"Figured you'd have told Astor first." Deb sets her phone down and eases into the tub, biting back a groan. The hot water is hitting all the right spots. It also makes her think of the night she spent with Faith in a luxury hotel suite, complete with deluxe spa accomodations. "What about you?"

A bitter laugh. _"What do you think?"_

"I should have guessed." Deb sighs in frustration. It's a real Gordian knot before her. Tied up around everything she cares about; holding her heart a virtual prisoner.

 _"It's not a good time."_ Dana pauses before letting out a little unamused snort. _"It's never a good time."_

"What about Buffy?" Deb always feels weird invoking the Sacred Name. "Did she --"

 _"Can't get involved. Conflict of interest."_ Dana's flippant tone doesn't disguise the obvious sense of betrayal. _"Inherent bias."_

"She's got a whole crew to look out for." It feels even weirder sticking up for the ex. Deb still has no real clue regarding the precise nature of Faith's relationship with the other Slayer. But she knows enough about being a leader to know that leading scares the piss out of her, and you couldn't pay her enough to do it. Even before factoring vampires into the equation.

"And you have a lot more going on," Deb quickly adds. "Like, world shattering stuff. I get it. There's no time to be worrying about fuckin' soap operas, it's just --"

Dana doesn't say anything. Deb can feel it building, behind her eyes.

"Fuck!" She leans back, fists pressed to her forehead. "Why do all these murderers fucking think I'm their girl?"

A heavy sigh. _"That's not fair."_

Deb's already regretting her outburst. Not just because Dana doesn't really deserve it. But the crazy little Slayer who almost killed her is the only one taking the time to reach out. At this rate, Deb doesn't know if she'll ever get the chance to talk to anyone higher in the ranks than Andrew. 

"I'm sorry." She doesn't lay it on thick. Dana can smell insincerity a mile away. "I just think -- alternate universe? Kind of more your people's area of expertise."

 _"I'm trying."_ Another sigh. _"Too much going on. All at once."_

Deb remembers this girl's story as it was explained to her. A thousand thousand lifetimes, all Slayers past and present flowed through Dana's spirit, as with all other Slayers. But her fractured psyche had left her initially unable to differentiate those memories from her own. And as the witches and various experts in the New Watcher's Council applied their knowledge to the case, they soon discovered that the girl's connection was also to the living. At some point, every moment of every Slayer's existence passed through Dana; was even accessible by her to the point of possession, of seemingly becoming another person entirely.

Dana had become Faith. Told her secrets to Deb. And now they were paying the price.

_"I'm doing what I can."_

"I know you are."

Deb leans back again. Stills her breathing; trying to calm her multiple runaway trains of thought. 

Wherever her brother has gotten his dumb ass to, he needs her help. And she can't let this damn girlfriend drama go and derail her. 

If she loses Dexter?

Any self-respecting ghost of Harry will never forgive her.

  


* * *

  


"I'm not lying."

Brian is calm and quiet. He almost never raises his voice. Doesn't need to. Not when Astor's seen him stab a man through the heart; slice a dead body into neat little sections, stacked and bagged like so much cordwood. It figures a doctor would know all the best ways to kill.

She tells herself she's not afraid of him. Not really. Except her lack of fear has been in part based on trust. On the fact that unlike every other grownup in her life, he alone will never try to deceive her. From the day he first took her into his home, he's been the one firm foundation remaining in her life. The one person she can count on.

"Astor, I swear to you. I killed him myself." Brian's eyes are momentarily vacant as he stares into nothingness. "I showed you the slide."

"That could have been anyone." Astor doesn't make it a serious challenge. More a formality.

They're sitting in the panic room. A hidden center of the house, it doubles as a workout space. It's not quite soundproof -- enough vibration will carry -- but there's no worries of being overheard. Not like they've ever had anyone else around to hear.

"You want me to take his fingerprints?" Brian sounds serious, even as he looks more than slightly skeptical. "Check his DNA?"

Astor turns away, sullen once more. "What good would that do?" 

"It would prove we weren't crazy." Brian chuckles. "You're not, are you?"

"Very funny." Astor quells the annoying shiver deep in her stomach.

"But it is him," Brian continues, all serious. "Isn't it?"

Astor takes a moment before responding. "Yeah."

She doesn't know how. Assuming Dexter was dispatched as advertised, dead men don't come back. And yet the confused and handsome interloper was unmistakable even in the darkness of the laundromat. In every word and movement; in every silent gesture and infuriating expression.

Astor tries not to sound helpless. Anything but that.

"So what do we do?"

"The same as always." Brian leans close and lowers his voice. "We have to stick together."

She can't think of anything else all the way back to her room. It's a windy night and the trees outside sway like dancers. Astor watches them moving until she realizes her feet are cold. She forgot her slippers in the bathroom, and she doesn't feel like going back for them.

She stares around her room, filled with empty pride. All her old friends from school would be jealous. Enemies too. Dark wooden trim along every inch of the walls; full deep carpeting, with coral tilework along the window ledges. One of these is an actual window seat, big enough for a grown man.

She clambers up into the bed. It's the same size as Brian's, a true king size four poster. It's also really tall, enough that climbing in always makes her feel like a kid again. In a world that sucks, the worst part is having to grow up fast.

It's still early, for her. Sleep won't come easy. Especially when every time she closes her eyes -- tries to think of her mother, or her brothers -- she can only see herself bringing a blade down into the chest of the man responsible for them being gone. Maybe his face, for good measure.

 _Astor._ She can picture her mother every time. _That's not very nice._

That was always her problem, Astor thinks as she arranges the blankets. Mom was too nice. It got her taken advantage of. It got her cheated on. It got her beaten. And of course, as inevitable as a final falling domino, it got her killed.

She doesn't know Dexter killed Mom. Any more than she knows Brian killed Dexter. She didn't see either murder with her own eyes. But it always made perfect sense. In a world where nothing made sense any more, it was the only thing that did. Everything Brian's been teaching her -- the right and wrong of all that matters in life -- stems from that pivotal upheaval.

If she can't trust Brian, there's no hope. He knows she could betray him at any time. And yet he trusted her with his name. With his life.

Dexter lied about everything. He lied all the time. To her and Cody. To Mom.

Why would he tell the truth now?

The moonlight casts tall shadows from the trees on her wall, like black and gnarled claws. Astor rolls over and stares out the window. The electric heating pad feels good pressed against her tummy. Maybe it will help with the bad dreams. She doesn't remember any of them.

She knows she doesn't want to.

Her sleep is more troubled than usual. So much so that she actually realizes, at one point, that she's asleep and dreaming.

 _So typical,_ the girl standing ahead of her remarks. _Think they can just cut in line._

 _Don't be so hard on her._ The girl's companion sounds less Valley, more street tough. _We were young once._

 _And look where it got us,_ the first one shoots back. _Up the bloody choir invisible, is where._

Astor goes to check her phone, just to see how much longer they'll have to wait. She remembers thinking this makes sense because it's her dream. Only the little icon that looks like a radio antenna is missing completely from her desktop. And emblazoned in big red letters across her cute kitten wallpaper are the words _NO SERVICE_.

"You're almost there." The blonde girl turns around, wearing a look of apology tinged with annoyance. "Just need to tie it all together."

Astor gives her a puzzled look. "Who are you?"

"Nobody special." The blonde flashes a weary smile, nonetheless determined. Her clothes are worn but stylish, hand-sewn to keep from appearing threadbare.

"Don't listen to her." This comes from the girl's dark-haired companion. Her stern features have the look of someone trying not to smile. "You want special? This chick wrote the book." 

"I could write a book about you." The blonde rolls her eyes. "Anyway -- just try to remember, okay?"

Astor feels it slipping away. "Remember what?"

"What your mom told you."

The words echo in her mind as Astor opens her eyes. She stares at the morning sun drifting in through her window, feeling an ache in her chest.

It sounds crazy. But she has to wonder.

If Dexter can come back from the dead?

Maybe he's not the only one.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dexter wakes up, and discovers that everything is still drastically different. Angel and Vince engage in male bonding, and reminisce regarding a fallen colleague. Deb fails at playing the game and at being an aunt. Astor doesn't realize she's being watched. And Dexter teeters on the fine line between fantasy and reality.

I drift up out of the darkness. Unable to struggle against the hand tightly sealed over my mouth. Its grip is strong; the fingers encased in leather, smelling of isopropyl.

Then the bitter tang of coffee tickles my nostrils. For a moment, I don't remember where I am. Silken sheets brush kisses along my reflexive morning erection as I squirm and stretch.

I open my eyes.

Someone has opened the double doors to the bedroom, leaving them ajar. The light from the hallway reveals an ornate wooden ceiling fan high above. It rotates in lazy circles, blades barely pushing against the air.

As far as I can tell, I'm still in Miami. But not as I know it.

My clothes from last night have vanished, with a clean shirt and slacks laid out for me on a nearby chair. The starchy smell, the crisp feel of the fabric on my skin makes me think of the laundromat I appeared in last night.

Of the man I killed.

The Passenger coils within, crooning delight. Already it's demanding more, gleeful with anticipation at the possibilities on offer. 

_What's the first rule?_ I ask it. I don't wait for an answer. _Don't get caught._

Without clear and accurate information -- about this world and everyone in it -- I don't stand a chance. I'll wind up in the soup. Or worse.

Having managed to dress myself, I follow my nose down the hallway and up a circular flight of stairs. The scent of coffee grows stronger along with the level of ambient natural light, until I emerge into the kitchen area.

It's the biggest room in the house I've seen so far. Windows on both sides of the house allow for full illumination throughout the day, reflected from a multitude of hanging copper pots and pans. Appliances gleam in black and chrome, polished to within an inch of their life. On the counter is a butcher's block, full of blades in all shapes and sizes.

"Morning." Brian greets me with a smile, thrusting a mug into my hands. He's wearing dark dress pants and jacket, with a tie in desert tones. "How'd you sleep?"

"Good," I reply, on automatic. I take a sip of coffee to stall for time. It's so tasty, the aroma so heavenly, that it takes a moment to notice Astor at the table by the window. She levels a look at me that could boil lava. 

"If you said _I don't remember?_ " Brian's eyes twinkle with mischief. "I was going to kill you."

I manage a perfunctory chuckle.

"It's okay." Brian's features soften. He gives me a squeeze on the shoulder, looking strictly sympathetic. "I know you've always had trouble expressing your feelings."

That was the old Dexter. Biney knows nothing of this new one, who learned to love, and to be loved. And to know fear.

The Passenger gives a soundless snarl deep inside. The only fear it knows is the possibility of being caught. Of being killed; of being shoved back down so far inside my psyche that I no longer hear its seductive siren song. The last year has been a revelation of breathing room for me, a nightmare of imprisonment for my former constant companion. I can feel its pure unreasoning terror. If I refuse it again, this may be the end.

"I was going to call in." Brian sighs, adjusting his cuffs. "Unfortunately, duty called first. So Astor will have to be your chaperone for the day."

It sounds like a calculated gamble on his part. If I'm dead in this world, I don't dare leave the house and risk being seen. But I'm not the only one at risk. And of course he's right to assume that Astor won't trust me. What's interesting -- and somewhat alarming -- is that he's placing me under the supervision of a teenage girl with no Slayer strength to back up her authority.

"Can I watch TV?" I ask.

"Of course." Brian looks surprised at the question. With his tousled and curly hair still damp from his morning shower, he looks like a monastic grad student wearing his father's clothes; wholly unprepared for the responsibilities of adult life.

"I set you up a guest account on my old laptop," he continues. "Astor can show you, but I've got to get going. See you for dinner?"

"I'm looking forward to it," I honestly reply.

Brian nods, pleased. For a minute I think he's going to hug me again. Then he chuckles and, with a parting significant glance toward Astor, collects his keys from the counter and departs. As the front door swings shut I see a demon's face mounted on the outside, its open mouth filled by a hanging metal knocker twice the size of my fist.

"He's taking the convertible." Astor offers this in a mostly neutral tone, with the barest undercurrent of boasting.

I look over at her plate. With a single piece of toast and half a grapefruit, it looks like a desert with a tiny tropical oasis.

Astor watches as I turn and open the refrigerator. She appears increasingly confused by my actions, if not my motivations. All I can do is continue to be me -- or as much of myself as it's safe to be -- and hope for the best.

"Oh, good." I hold the half-finished pack of bacon aloft with a flourish. "For a minute I thought we were completely uncivilized."

Astor's lip curls as she turns away. She stares out the window, peeling the remaining bits of rind from her grapefruit without looking.

"I'll assume you don't mind." I select a pan and flip on the gas. A cheerful blue flame explodes into being, sending a controlled roar of heat into the air. "Do you want some?"

"It wouldn't mean anything." Astor continues to stare at the pair of bluejays circling the metal rose arbor, calling out to one another. "Even if I did."

I don't bother to reply, but I take that as a yes. It's a start. Anything is better than _I'll fucking kill you_.

I watch the meat shrink and sizzle in the pan, flip it with a pair of fancy silicon tongs. Asking the right questions is hard enough. Given the hostility of my source, the Internet may be a better option for now.

I deposit the finished product on her plate without comment. In my experience, Astor likes her bacon mostly done but without a hint of carbon; fat still tender, patted mostly dry with paper towels so as not to make a mess.

She looks down at it. I turn and walk away before she feels obligated to say anything, good or bad.

I don't look up as I scrub the pan clean at the sink. "Can you show me that laptop when you're done?"

I hear the crunch of bacon being quietly appreciated.

"Whatever."

  


* * *

  


"Oh my God."

"Please stop saying that." Angel clutches his throbbing skull, praying for a miracle. "In fact? Please stop talking."

Vince groans and stumbles toward the bathroom. Angel rolls over and covers his ears, trying to block out the sound of retching. Thank God for prepaid taxi service. 

He just hopes there won't be too much cleanup. Jamie's already sick of him living with her, and she's been laying down more of the law every day when it comes to his petty little misdemeanors. Labeling her food in the fridge, that sort of thing. Bringing his drunk co-workers home, so they don't have to drive or stumble defenseless through the more dangerous parts of the city, is the sort of thing a good bro does. Though it wouldn't hurt if he had his own place.

Though Angel still tries to live by that final promise to his father -- _be an honest man_ \-- he has to admit he probably shouldn't have told his ex about the affair. Good intentions aside, being thrown out of the house was bad enough even before the entire department had been thrown into a tsunami of uproar. All thanks to their explosive discovery of Dexter's diabolical deeds, in the wake of his sudden death by suicide. A mere two weeks into the hastily convened investigation, it had seemed there would be enough treachery to keep Internal Affairs busy for a lifetime. Now, after more than a year, it looks as though the rain of shit will never end.

From the bathroom, Vince's plaintive voice emerges. "Can I use the shower?"

"Don't make a mess."

Angel's already dreading the thought of being the second one in there. He crawls out from under the blanket and rolls off the sofa, blinking furiously before rising and shuffling over to the dresser. It takes a few minutes to find his morning after kit full of little foil packets from the convenience store counter. B vitamins, all kinds of goodness and crap that Vince swears by. As far as it goes, Angel's become a believer.

Thankfully, Jamie has fled for the safety of work at the day care when he finally pokes his head out of the mancave. He heads for the kitchen and rustles up eggs and sausage, timing extra crispy hash browns to coincide with Vince having steamed the last traces of toxins from his bloodstream. His diminutive co-worker staggers in with a towel wrapped around his midsection, looking very much relieved.

"Oh God." This time it sounds like thanksgiving rather than a dirge. Vince sits down at the tiny and rickety table, nearly diving head first into his plate.

"Ready to face the LT?" Angel cracks an egg into a glass, watching beer foam and billow around the bobbing ball of sunshine. It's been a while since he tied one on with this degree of enthusiasm. But sometimes paying tribute to a fallen colleague demands sacrifice. Never too maudlin, of course. They always avoid too much reminiscing during the actual consumption of alcohol, lest it devolve into unmanly weeping. Deb would have hated that.

Still, not a day goes by that one of them doesn't wax eloquent regarding some praiseworthy aspect of her character, her skills both on and off the job. Vince in particular will be forever grateful for her expansion of his vocabulary. The truth is that both men miss everything about her. From her crooked smile to her dogged persistence and fast-improving marksmanship, Debra Morgan had been a loyal friend and colleague.

If only she'd known.

"I'm seriously considering cocaine." Vince mashes his fork into the potato layer, soaking up every last bit of grease. "Seems to work for those boys in the cartel."

"Your septum cannot risk further deviation, my friend." Angel looks up from his home remedy, still working on steeling himself to take the plunge. "You're looking a whiter shade of pale this morning."

"I can report that to human resources." Vince's knowing eyes gleam behind his glasses.

"Go for it," Angel retorts. "I'll show them the _piñata_ cartoon you sent me."

"What pi--" Vince sighs and shakes his head. "Talk about dirty pool."

"Come on, finish up." Angel gestures impatiently. "We're gonna be late as it is."

Vince hesitates before stuffing the last bite of sausage into his mouth. "I'll be in later."

"It's your funeral." Angel shrugs. "And wash your plate. Unless you want my sister's foot up your ass."

"Can you drop me at the hardware store on Monroe?" Vince ignores the blatant straight line. His bald pate shining, he appears freshly energized, ready to seize the day. "I gotta pick up a few things."

"You bet." Angel holds his nose and downs the glass tumblerful of sickly concoction, unable to suppress a slight gagging.

"Pussy." Even Masuka's insult seems more a ritual call and response than an actual attempt at shit-talking. It's in everything they do lately. Like they're all just going through the motions of life. Even the used convertible Angel picked up for a steal at the last police auction has failed to make a dent, or fill the holes left behind by their missing colleagues.

Not that he'd admit it to anyone, but he misses Dexter. Not just the Dexter the guy pretended to be, but the one Angel had gotten occasional glimpses of during years of working and bowling together. Both were awkward as hell; well-meaning to a fault, if somewhat oblivious to most social conventions. But the hidden Dexter always seemed to possess a righteous sense of justice that could best be described as silent rage.

It wasn't an uncommon thing. They all felt it who wore the badge; the burning desire to find and punish those responsible for wicked deeds. But Dexter hadn't just burned with the need for justice. His "Dark Passenger", as he'd called it, demanded blood. He'd gone over the line, spent too much time there on the other side. And when he realized that his deeds had left him irrevocably changed -- that he had become the very thing he'd been hunting all these years -- he'd taken his own life. Left a heartfelt confession and his own cooling body, next to that of an innocent woman. The woman he had married for no more purpose than a convenient bit of disguise. A predator's camouflage, to conceal his true nature.

Rita's murder might be the one thing Angel can't forgive Dexter for.

If it weren't for Deb.

"What do I say to LaGuerta when she asks where you are?"

Vince frowns. "Why would she ask you?"

"Because you spend half your nights at my place, _idiota_." Angel holds the door open as they exit the apartment. "And you turned your ringer off last night."

"Point taken." Vince only looks concerned for a moment. If anything, the bald Asian man appears less distracted than usual. Whatever he's focused on, it's miles away. Maybe light-years.

"You're sure you don't want me to wait?" Angel asks. "I can come in. You know, if you need help picking out a wrench or some shit."

"Thanks." From the rueful twist of Vince's expression, they don't need to explicitly acknowledge his lack of experience with any tool outside of a laboratory. "I'll see you later."

It's not for Angel to wonder what his co-workers get up to when he's not around. Any more than it is to speculate on matters above his pay grade. But still, you have to wonder. Vince Masuka has always been an odd bird. But ever since Deb was taken from them, even before they learned the truth about her murder, his oddness has taken a number of twists and turns. Most of the changes aren't even visible, apart from his more serious dress and demeanor. Angel can definitely see his once-pudgy colleague leaning out; feel the muscle when he claps the shorter man on his formerly unimpressive shoulder. It's improvement obvious enough that it could only come from dedicated workouts or steroid abuse. And he can't imagine even the new Masuka doing anything that might jeopardize the safety of his genitals.

He's not going to worry unless Vince starts drinking far more heavily. Or shows up at work with a faceful of bruises, going all Fight Club. He'll respect his friend's privacy, and try to keep him from being assaulted by Sergeant Doakes. Five years on the force and LaGuerta is the only one who ever calls the guy _James._ And only on his birthday.

"Top down?" He cocks an eyebrow at Vince as they approach the convertible. He's parked well away from the street, far enough to avoid all but the most desperate or dedicated thieves and vandals. "Always lures the ladies."

"Nah." Masuka squints up at the sky. "Storm's coming."

  


* * *

  


_Original Universe_

"And Dexter is --"

"Still indisposed, ma'am." Deb doesn't try to keep a poker face as she hands over the forged paperwork. Just look appropriately concerned. "It's all right there in the file --"

"Just give me the short version." LaGuerta's stern look says it had better be more than short.

"He was exposed to a possible nasty bug," Deb says. "Needs to be in quarantine for a minimum three weeks."

"Minimum," LaGuerta repeats, in a tone of sheer disbelief. Her pleasantly rounded features contract and contort as she shakes her head, sending her dangling hoop earrings into a flurry of motion.

"It's always possible --"

"No." LaGuerta rises from her seat and slaps the stacks of papers down, staring full on at Deb as she leans forward on her desk. "You may have covered your ass with this weak bullshit. But at least do me the favor of not insisting that I swallow it."

"I'm sorry, ma'am --"

"You only call me _ma'am_ when you're kissing my ass, or trying to hide something. And since I don't feel a puckered pair of lips paying tribute --" LaGuerta actually reaches behind herself and smacks her own right hindcheek under her tight gray skirt. "I can only conclude that you and your little band of rebels are trying to keep something quiet again."

"Again?" Deb's echo is rather weaker than intended. All things considered, she probably should have remained silent.

"Whatever it is? It's big." LaGuerta rises to her full height, arms crossed over her chest. "And the bigger something is, the harder it is to hide. So just remember. All of you --"

Her eyes flick over Deb's shoulder. Quinn and Masuka are sitting at Deb's desk, pretending to be engrossed in something having absolutely nothing to do with any events that are currently unfolding in the lieutenant's office. While their undercover skills are improving, it seems the effort has gone for naught.

LaGuerta's gaze returns to Deb. "You're on borrowed time."

"Understood." Deb nods, awaiting formalities.

LaGuerta falls back into her seat, looking exhausted. "Dismissed."

Deb exits the office like she's on fire. She may have dodged another bullet, but the churning in her stomach, the empty feeling in the soles of her feet like she's standing on the hair's edge of a treacherous mountain cliffside, are sure signs of escalating stress.

She's gotten too used to being able to ring up Faith. Even if it went to voicemail, she could always rant there to her heart's content and still be sure of a callback. It was like having a girlfriend and a guy friend all in one. Now the closest she gets to girl talk is a vigilante murderer turned bloodsucking creature of the night. Or there's always her neice, who can wipe the floor with a whole posse of undead foes without breaking a sweat, but still wrinkles her nose when grownups engage in public displays of affection.

Quinn and Vince at least have the good sense to ignore Deb as she sweeps past them. It won't allay LaGuerta's suspicions, but it gives them plausible deniability. She waits until she's inside the safety of the woman's restroom, door shut and all stalls checked for occupants, before pulling out her phone.

"Astor." Deb greets her neice like she would a rookie partner. "Got a minute?"

_"Yeah. Just a second --"_ Astor's yell is somewhat muffled, as though her hand is over the phone. _"No! It's Aunt Deb!"_

Deb can't help a grim chuckle. "Cody?"

_"Of course."_ Astor sounds impatient and not a little stressed out her own self. _"I told him we'd make cookies."_

Deb tries to recall her last childhood kitchen experiment. "Is Lumen helping?"

_"Of course."_ Astor's verbal eyeroll is slightly more forgiving. _"What else is she going to do in the middle of the day except poke her nose into my business?"_

_"I heard that,"_ comes an off-mic woman's voice.

_"Good."_ Astor doesn't allow herself to be distracted by a battle of dueling ripostes. _"You guys can get started. I'm going in my room."_

"You sure?" Deb knows the family dynamics here are convoluted at best. Still, it does seem a tad inappropriate.

_"I know how to make cookies."_ Judging by Astor's airy dismissal, this particular skillset has been deemed obsolete. Deb can hear a door firmly closing shut. _"What's up?"_

Deb's laugh comes out bitter. Nowhere near a sob. But for a moment, she wishes she could cry. Except it won't make anything better. And it won't stop.

"I'm thinking about Faith." Deb overrides her neice's objection. "I know you can't give me advice. I know you're thirteen and you're not even dating, I know you're biased, I just -- want to bounce shit off you, see if anything sticks."

_"Ew."_ Astor's distaste outweighs her amusement. _"You need better metaphors."_

"I'm thinking --" Deb takes a deep breath, preparing for an onslaught. "What if it's for the best?"

_"What?"_ Astor snorts at such a ridiculous notion. _"You and Faith?"_

"See -- my big problem has always been committment." Deb turns slightly so she doesn't have to see herself in the mirror. That perpetual frown is exactly the sort of thing that will keep her firmly planted in Prozac Nation. "As soon as a guy wants to get serious? I'm out the door."

_"Maybe that's the problem,"_ Astor dryly notes.

"So I hook up with a girl -- she's serious, but not too much. Feels like Goldilocks and the fuckin' -- and the porridge, okay? Just right."

_"So call her."_ The insistence in Astor's voice makes Deb feel like they're in an After School Special. _"Just because Dexter's an idiot about his feelings --"_

They both fall silent. Deb's wondering who will be the one to break, when Astor lets out an all too grownup sigh.

_"I'll talk to you tomorrow."_ A pregnant pause. _"Lumen said thanks for the blood."_

"No problem." Deb can feel her heart swell with frustrated need. It sucks being powerless to help. "Sorry I busted your balls."

_"No problem."_ Astor sounds taken aback, eager to be off and away. _"Bye."_

Deb stares at her phone. Belatedly, she realizes she ought to have inquired as to the state of all things Harrison. But there's no way Astor would let that go. Not if there was anything that needed to be addressed. 

She'll stop by tomorrow after work. Enjoy a home-cooked meal made by an undead host who doesn't partake of her own home cooking. It's still weird as shit, but things could be worse. As long as they get Dexter back soon.

Then maybe they can all relax.

  


* * *

  


Astor doesn't look like a natural athlete. Nor does she move like one. Her limbs are stiff and awkward, her clumsy fingers unable to hold on to the basketball for long. Inevitably it eludes her grasp to go bouncing off of the driveway and into the tall grass. Each time she lets out a little frustrated growl before scampering after it with a look of fiery resolve, picking it up and glaring at it like a misbehaving infant before carrying it back to the asphalt to resume her routine.

The house has plenty of windows of all shapes and sizes. From most angles, it's very transparent. Brian chuckles when he says that. Astor thinks Dexter is probably watching her, from somewhere inside.

She gives the ball an extra hard bounce that she immediately regrets. As she stands there watching it go flying once more into the shrubbery, Astor thinks back to the first day she saw this place. Riding up in the van from the foster care facility, it seemed like a story she once read with a genie and a lamp. A man had made a wish for unlimited wealth and power, and got exactly what he asked for -- even as he lost the woman who mattered most in his life.

It's not a fair trade. If she could, even if it meant going back to those cheap motels, living on little more than noodles and rice, of course Astor would want her mother back. Only a horrible person would choose a castle in the clouds over their own flesh and blood. All the fairy tales say so.

But what if she could have both?

It seems like such a wicked thought. Astor can't imagine how it's even possible, or worth contemplating. But here Dexter is, a dead man walking. Not like the spooky figures of smoke and shadow from her increasingly incoherent dreams. A real flesh and blood devil with an angel's face.

The worst part is, he's not quite the man she remembers. More awkward in some ways; less in others. Almost like he's playing a role. But one that he's more than comfortable with. The more time she spends around this hesitant, helpful Dexter, the more Astor can feel the desire to let down her guard. To give him a chance, for whatever reason.

That's suicide. Her brief time in foster care has been more than enough to drive that lesson home. Poor Cody is all but lost in the system, with a DCF recommendation of no further contact with Astor after their last meeting.

What Brian has managed to do for her, at incalculable risk to his own security, is nothing short of a miracle. To betray his trust wouldn't just destroy his world. It would mean the end of everything. No more big private bedroom and indoor pool; no more homeschooling, with occasional tutors to fill in the gaps in her chosen cirriculum. They'll send Astor to a crazy hospital. And worst of all, they'll pretend to feel sorry for her.

Maybe some of them even would be.

Her knees are getting tired from bending down to pick up the basketball. That wouldn't happen if she could quit dropping it.

Astor doesn't know why it's suddenly so important to be doing this. Especially when she's so bad at it. She hasn't even jumped rope since third grade. Reading used to be more fun, but that was before everything changed. She doesn't like being alone as much as she used to. Except she doesn't know any other way to be. Doesn't know anyone else she can talk to.

Olivia was her best friend until Olivia and her mom moved into her mom's boyfriend's house. Astor hasn't talked to her since, but it's for the best. One secret exposed inevitably leads to another. And it hurts even more being unable to fully reveal her own pain.

Astor remembers the smell of her new little brother, fresh from the bath. Her mother guiding her hands, showing her how to cradle and support him.

Brian shows her other things to do with her hands. Teaches her anatomy. Where the weak spots give way that hold a person together.

She turns and hurls the ball into the bushes. It goes wide, glancing off a tree and rolling away. Astor doesn't see. She's blinded by tears. Consumed with impotent, ineffectual fury. Corroding from the inside.

Dexter pokes his head out the door. "Are you okay --"

"Shut up." She says it just loud enough for him to hear. If she says it any louder she'll start screaming, like a little kid throwing a tantrum. If he says one more word, she'll have to run. Especially if he tries to be nice again.

The door clicks. A quick surreptitious glance over reveals a deserted front porch. Astor realizes her hands are shaking. You can't make good cuts with shaky hands.

She closes her eyes. Stands up straight. Inhales slow and steady, just like the video says. From even a short distance, she might as well be a statue.

From still greater distance, a pair of eyes observe her movements.

  


* * *

  


She can't believe it.

After all this time. A hundred fleabag rest stops and barroom brawls, in search of information that refused to give itself up. After losing everything that used to matter.

The observer doesn't move from her crouch. Hugging the ground, huddled by the trunk of a nearby tree in her camo pants and jacket, at this remove she might as well be invisible. Only an eagle's vision can zoom in and spot every inward and outward breath of air; each micromovement and tremble of scant and straining muscle as her target strives for stillness.

The girl's no athlete, that much is sure. And by the look of it, no real expert at meditation. But they were all there once.

It's still a damn shame. But as she sits there, staring at Astor through the trees from over a hundred yards away, she can't bring herself to care about the deep and unrelenting ache in her soul. Or the thought of what will happen -- what must happen -- when this clearly tragedy-stricken young woman realizes the hand she's been dealt. More misery upon misery, no matter how the cards fall. No matter how you slice it.

Fate? Destiny? Words like that are nothing more than excuses. None of us get a choice about the life we're given. Only about how we deal with it.

If the trail that led her to this place is at all accurate, she can't play it like her usual style this time. Impatience notwithstanding, that means no charging in blind. 

And she won't be the only one interested in this girl.

She takes one last look, preparing to depart. Astor has switched from trying to dribble the basketball to bouncing it on one knee like a soccer ball, with no more success than before.

"Keep at it, kid."

Her whisper is lost on the breeze.

  


* * *

  


I'm sitting at an antique coffee table. The living room is spacious, boasting a wall to wall picture window and a stone fireplace. Through the window I can see the thicker growth of trees in back of the house. It borders a small lake, with no other access to the property.

I think Astor is still out front. But I'm still having trouble with the notion that I've been given unrestricted access to the Internet. And if Brian is willing to allow me unsupervised contact with his young ward on my very first day here, he must be very confident regarding his hold over her.

Unless.

The one thing I've been told always holds true about alternate dimensions is that anything is possible. I still have a hard time believing in a world without shrimp. But only last week, I was explaining all this to a very much alive Rita. Brought to my world by the vampire Darla's parting curse before leaving Miami, a great deal of mischief had ensued from her presence, not all of it Darla's fault.

But this Rita had come from a world where she survived Arthur Mitchell's assault. Where I had brutally murdered him right before her shocked and staring eyes; subsequently confessed to my every crime, and been speedily executed.

If this Brian is the same psychopath I remember -- if nothing he says, or his purpose in saying it, can be taken for granted -- I wouldn't put it past him to have cameras all over the house. Never ceasing recording; sending everything over hard lines, unhackable by anything via the Internet. Stored on a hidden server with a dead man's switch. Monitored daily, before being irretrievably deleted.

And yet.

What if this universe is indeed a mirror?

What if I'm the bad guy?

My fingers tremble, an inch away from the keys. I don't even know if there's some piece of software tracking my searches. Maybe every single keystroke. 

Searching for nothing at all is going to look even more suspicious. I need to come at this from a more oblique angle.

I feel someone peering over my shoulder. "Who the fuck is Lenore Ogilvie?"

"I worked with her a few times." I glance back at Astor. She's hovering too close for comfort, flushed from exercise and time in the sun. "At least I think I did."

Because Brian isn't my only concern. His ISP will happily hand over logs if law enforcement should come calling. Whatever I do online could potentially be of interest to a great many people.

"Psychic?" Astor scoffs, perusing my search results.

"I take it you're not a believer," I say as I click the top link.

Another scoff. Still, it's a weak one. I wonder how much of her worldview she's already begun to question. I can only hope.

"Well -- real or not." I nod at the screen, at the homebrew website with its throwback nineties design. "I need to talk to this woman."

"Not yet." Astor stands up, reigning in what little emotion she might have accidentally let through. "See what he says."

"Okay." Best not to argue. I grab the fat silver fountain pen from its velvet-lined case and scribble down the address and phone number.

Astor snorts. I guess she got tired of scoffing. "Nineteeth century much?"

I shrug. "I haven't got a phone."

I can feel her walking away. It's better than picking up something heavy and bashing my brains out.

She doesn't go far. I sense her on the periphery of vision, pretending to peruse the bookshelves across from the fireplace. I'm sure she's pretending. As sure as she knows I'm sure.

I can think of plenty of things to search for. Plenty of people. But I can't take the chance. Not here. Not yet.

I type in the address for the Miami Metro page. That's still the same. So is the logo, although the layout is slightly different. In moments I'm staring at the senior administrative staff: Chief Matthews, with less hair than I remember; Lieutenant LaGuerta, possibly a few pounds heavier. Judging by the public presentation, the rough details of their career arcs appear unchanged from my own world.

As for lower ranking officers, they generally aren't named or pictured due to general security concerns. Still, I spend a few minutes poking around, hoping to spot someone I might know. But all the promotional photographs are stock, generic faces in uniform straight out of central casting. Their bland smiles make me want to peel their lips off.

"Looking for her?"

I turn. Astor stands a few feet away, holding out a small framed photo. It's my sister in a red bikini, a huge floppy hat and sunglasses. Caught in broad daylight on a public beach, her mouth is open wide in uncontrolled laughter as she leans back into Brian's embrace. My brother is a scarecrow in black swim trunks, trim and fit while being only a few missed meals away from emaciated. His smile as he gazes over Deb's shoulder is just a little bemused, as though he's unsure what to do with his prize now that he's caught her.

I look up at Astor, regarding me with undisguised malice. I see her free hand twitch before a blade appears. My six-inch chef's knife, gleaming in the harsh light of day that streams through the picture window.

"Fucking touch me." Astor grinds the words out from between clenched teeth like she's ready to spit in my face. She moves one foot back, planting it firmly in the floor. "Try it."

I can feel myself frowning in that puzzled way that always seems to enrage people. Astor stares at me, waiting for a moment that never comes. Until the awkward stretches past the snapping point, making it obvious I'm completely baffled.

"You think you're hot shit." A hot flush is spreading up her neck, over her cheeks and forehead. Her grip on the hilt of the chef's knife is exactly how I would have trained her to hold it. "You fucking touch me, because I don't need him I swear I will cut open your fucking nutsack and let your balls fall right out, you fucking _faggot_ \--"

I don't know what I look like right now. Astor's face crumbles as she hurls Deb's picture at me. It almost hits my temple as I duck and I don't see her as she turns and runs from the room, footsteps echoing down the hall. I'm pretty sure I heard her starting to cry.

_"Of course she was crying."_

I pause with my hand on the fallen photograph. That voice can't be real. Any more than I can be.

_"It's why she left."_

I'm losing all my equilibrium as I tip my head back and look up. At the worn and craggy face I know so well; at those eyes so full of all the warmth my brother's are missing.

At the face of yet another dead relative.

_"Really, Dexter."_ Harry smiles and shakes his head. _"Haven't you learned anything?"_


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dexter tackles a philosophical problem with potential real implications. A mysterious stranger continues to observe. Back home, Deb and Lumen struggle with family life. Astor does not react well. And Vince sees something that will definitely change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I came to this world by magical means. That much is indisputable. And if magic exists in this world, as it does in mine, then it's possible that a ghost can be real._
> 
> _That I can find a way home._

Before we continue, I think I should explain something. Regardless of anyone else's opinion? I'm not crazy.

At least, the odds are against a Florida jury being convinced.

I mean, I've never thought so. I did some legal research once, out of professional interest, and concluded that anyone trying to pin the label of insanity on me would have a tough time of it. Starting with the first rule of the Code that I lived by for so many years. It speaks directly to things such as premeditation; acting to conceal my crimes, indicating conscious knowledge that what I was doing was wrong.

Long before I knew or believed anything about the supernatural, I'd had plenty of conversations with dead people. Or so it always seemed. But of all the fleeting phantoms who appeared to appear before me, only Harry had been persistent enough to stick with me over the years. It wasn't until one night when I was out hunting demons with a Slayer who was looking to train my stepdaughter, that everything clicked. I'd realized I was no more bound by the Code than by the memory of the man who gave it to me. The man who taught me how to kill, and get away with it.

Since that night I hadn't seen or heard Harry, not even once. It only lent further credence to the obvious common sense notion that all this time, I'd simply been talking to myself. Dressing up part of my own mind in a friendly skin, giving it a familiar formative voice. Providing a sounding board of sorts to help me work things out.

Of course, I've also since learned that vampires are real. So you could be excused for thinking I wouldn't have too much of a problem with the notion of ghosts. Especially after witnessing the spirit of my murdered wife temporarily return to the mortal world by possessing the body of a vampire. But as I stare up at the weary and kindly face of my expired foster father; at the faded denim jeans, the slightly frayed collar of his pale blue button-down, all I can think to myself is that this is well and truly it. That dear deluded Dexter has finally taken a fatal dive off the deep end.

"You're dead." The words sound more than odd on my lips. Though the room is warm, I feel a distinct chill.

 _"So we can't have a conversation?"_ The same old gentle and understanding smile; somewhat translucent but more visible, more seemingly physical than ever, right down to the wrinkle of crows' feet around his bright and shining eyes. _"That never stopped you before."_

This can't be happening. I don't have time to be talking to people who only exist inside my head.

 _"It's been a while,"_ Harry notes as I stand up. _"I was beginning to worry."_

I look down at my hands. I'm still holding the picture of Deb and Brian at the beach. Both of them enjoying themselves, without a care in the world. My sister grins out at me from inside the frame, forever frozen in the moment.

I need to find out what happened.

 _"Is there a problem?"_ Harry radiates concern. His footsteps are perfectly silent as he follows me to the couch.

"No problem," I say, keeping my voice low. "But unless you're going to save me an Internet search? You can save your breath."

 _"I don't breathe."_ Harry watches as I sit down in front of the open laptop, my fingers resting on the home keys.

I still can't trust that the connection isn't being monitored, along with all my search queries. I'm wrestling with a way around this when I realize I've already come up with the answer. A perfect way to kill two birds with one stone. Or at least one bird.

"Tell me something I don't know." I turn and directly address the figment of my imagination, staring into its nonexistent eyes. "Literally."

Harry frowns before his confusion clears. _"Ah."_

"That's right," I prompt him. "What am I doing?"

 _"Looking for evidence."_ Harry nods. _"If I can provide information you don't have -- something that's not already in your brain, that you can verify -- that would help to prove that I exist outside of you."_

"Precisely what I was thinking," I dryly note.

 _"Dexter, I don't know what to tell you. But I'm as real as it gets."_ A flash, a spark of something flares in those deep-set eyes before it's gone again. _"You've got to believe me."_

"I don't have to do anything." I look around the room. At the thick antique throw rugs with their intricate designs; the mirrored display case full of tiny statues and collector's calligraphy sets, the barely noticeable high-end stereo tucked away into the recessed shelving. "I don't have to believe any of this is real."

 _"But why would you assume everything is fake?"_ Harry sounds harder, more exasperated. _"Just because you've been gone all this time is no excuse for sloppy thinking."_

I cock my head and listen. There's no sign of Astor within earshot. Still, I'm too self-conscious to continue this supposed dialogue in here.

I slide open the door to the patio and step outside, gazing over the lake that lies beyond the treeline. With no dock or other access to the water, the swampy area between looks impassable. I don't need the Passenger to imagine a secret cache of bodies buried deep within the mass of muck and mire. But Brian hardly strikes me as being a foolish enough killer to foul his own nest.

"You said I've been gone." My fingers grip the iron rail, squeezing until my knuckles start to protest. "How long?"

 _"It's been a while."_ Harry sounds dubious. _"Don't tell me you've forgotten."_

"Let's say I have." I turn and fix my gaze upon the all too visible apparition that for whatever reason has chosen to haunt me. "Tell me what happened."

 _"Dex..."_ And Harry shakes his head again, as solemn as the grave. I stand silent, awaiting his reply.

 _"It was hard enough to watch."_ A trick of the light glistens in Harry's eyes. _"Please don't make me do it again."_

"Then you're not helping," I growl, and turn away again. "I need hard information. Not fortune cookies and empty platitudes."

Harry remains silent.

"I'm sure you'll pardon my skepticism." I stare down at my hands, still gripping the railing. "But I feel like I've been here before."

 _"Of course you have."_ Now Harry sounds confused. _"You've spent your whole life in Miami."_

"Doesn't it bother you?" I say. "Talking to a dead man?"

 _"Look who you're talking to."_ The dry humor is back, more subtle than before. _"Besides. You're the only one who can hear me."_

That stops me. For a moment, my thoughts are redirected.

"Has it always been that way?" I look over at Harry again. "Has anyone else ever seen you? Or heard you?"

 _"Not that I can remember."_ The look in those ghostly eyes I now recognize is nothing more than sheer gratitude and profound relief. _"It's been hell without you, son."_

"Who the fuck are you talking to?"

Astor stands in the doorway. Her eyes are slightly red, along with the skin underneath, as if she's been scrubbing too hard. The shirt from earlier with the little flowers around the neck is gone, replaced by a dark grey sweatshirt with the hood pulled back. She looks like she's about to go for a jog. She looks like a younger Lumen, going out on the prowl. Going hunting.

"No one," I say.

"Quit lying." She shivers and glares, hugging herself like she's cold.

"I'm not --" I pause to consider. 

"Actually?" I start walking toward the door. Astor moves away, a little too quickly. I can't tell how much it bothers me.

"That's an interesting question," I continue. "From a philosophical perspective."

"What is?" Astor hangs back as I reenter the house. Harry walks through the glass behind me without the slightest hesitation, his expression brimming over with doubt.

"How do you know if you're talking to someone?" I turn and address Astor directly. "How do you know they're real?"

"I could stab you." A tiny smirk curls the corner of her lips. "That'd be real."

"My problem is that this person --" I send an actual glance at Harry, still a silent observer. Astor's eyes flick over to follow mine, quickly returning.

"Is being about as cooperative as you are," I conclude. I hold up the piece of paper with my scrawl from earlier, bearing contact information on the only lead I have. "So I need to talk to this person. Lenore Ogilvie."

"I told you." Astor's tone is flat as a plane. "Not until he says. And it's stupid for you to leave the house anyway."

She adds this last with an air of growing irritation. With my fledgling grasp on emotions -- adolescent ones have never been my forte -- I think I see the problem. For whatever reason, she's unable to properly take pleasure in her unique privilege of being able to exercise power over an adult. She recognizes her lack of enjoyment. And it frustrates her greatly. 

"I don't know what your life is like." I try not to sound as though I'm treating her like a kid. Or like she's stupid. "I don't know what I did. I don't even know -- if I even did it."

Astor's disbelief and contempt for me are as strong as ever. But her gaze now is as troubled as Harry's own.

"Whatever happened to you," I say. "I don't care if you don't believe me. But I'm sorry."

I wish I was better at this. Harry continues to look even more disturbed as he surveys the changing landscape unfolding before him.

"I just want to help." I watch miniscule twitches ripple over her face, signs of her struggle to remain aloof. "And I --"

The _just want to go home_ dies behind my lips. No matter how strong my instinct might be to trust this girl, I shouldn't be indiscriminately revealing any of my existing knowledge to other people. I especially shouldn't be doing it faster than I acquire new information myself.

"If you help me?" I make it sound like an open question. "Maybe I could get out of your life again. Without having to die."

Astor's laugh is as bitter and cynical as a seasoned thirty-something on the club circuit come Lady's Night. She runs a calculating eye down the length of my body, as if measuring me for the knife.

"So this is important," I say. "For both of us. I need to see this woman, not just talk on the phone. If she is who I think she is? Then she can help."

"You're crazy." Astor's eyes narrow into a a penetrating glare of pure suspicion. "How is some dimestore con artist going to help?"

"You're telling me you've never had anything inexplicable happen to you?" I try to come up with a decent wording. Something that straddles the lines of so many grey areas. "Anything that didn't seem like...just another bad dream?"

For a moment, her face becomes a stone mask. Then it's just nothing.

"Yeah." Astor stares back at me with effortless accusation; absolute, without limit. "My whole life."

Obviously it's time to try new tactics.

"I don't know how I got here," I say. And that's true. But I can't give anything away. I need Astor to start thinking for herself.

Going outside the box.

"But if I really did come back from the dead." I let it hang between us, watching her for any sign of reaction. "Shouldn't we at least try to find out what's going on?"

  


* * *

  


She's been cruising the neighborhood for half an hour, just completing her second circuit before pulling up outside the cul-de-sac and pretending to fiddle with the hog's innards. If anyone asks, she'll say it's probably the carburetor. A pig's eye if anyone in a hood this ritzy would know a carb from a hole in their ass. And on the off chance they do, she can play that shit when she has to. Though her knowledge may be a bit out of date.

She grimaces and leans back, trying to massage away the lingering ache in her thigh. Given the time of day, it beats bursting into flame. It also sucks each time she thinks about how fast this would have healed back in the old days. An injury now years in the past, still echoing daily into the present. But this is the life she's chosen.

She tries not to think about the ones who don't have a choice.

Should have known this approach wouldn't do much good. Astor's been home schooling since Dr. Cooper took her in, and judging by her lack of a suntan, spending more time indoors than out. Might have to talk to the police for information; try to get in good with the dead aunt's crew. That's guaranteed to be a barrel of laughs.

For now, it's a beautiful day. Enough that it sucks she can't risk removing the helmet. With this figure her sex is more than evident, but under the dark leather and the plexiglass shield, she could be any badass chick on a motorcycle. Which is another couple of laughs. Point being that even if someone spots her right now, they probably won't recognize her later without the bike.

Assuming the kid leaves the house at all today. Dr. Cooper is away this morning, called in to perform emergency reconstructive surgery. Generally he sets his own hours, but he's never been one of those cosmetic workers who limit themselves to the vain and wealthy. At least so far in her research, it looks like Astor could have picked worse places to land. The heated indoor pool must be nice.

She's sitting far enough from the end of the street for plausible deniability, should anyone actually accuse her of spying. In theory, there are plenty of other methods of surveillance in her toolbox. But even the most trivial magickal undertakings fill her with trepidation all out of proportion. Things are bad enough already without a spell gone wrong finding some way to make everything worse. She's seen enough of that foolishness for a hundred lifetimes.

No. This is just a brief stop, to suss out her target's routine. The slightest sign of trouble and she's in the wind. And much as she hates it, there's always play-acting at being the helpless female. Which would be a hell of a lot more fun if she actually felt like she was playing.

"You asked for it," she mutters.

No sign of life down the driveway. And she's been parked here too long. Which is driven home when the blonde guy coming outside, ostensibly to mow his lawn, looks far too well-groomed and dressed for this sort of work. That's a man eager to chat up a stranger and find out if they're up to no good.

So she finishes up her _faux_ tinkering and hops back on the bike, taking off with a friendly wave. Upscale suburb like this one, a moped would attract less attention than an actual motorcycle. But there are some things she just can't bring herself to sink to.

Speaking of.

Time to talk to the cops.

  


* * *

  


Astor has an air of trying too hard to appear monumentally bored. Ever since she lost control and blew up at me, threatening gruesome and fatal retribution, she's been presenting an exterior utterly devoid of emotion. Again, it's an exaggerated version of an Astor I know. I've seen this before.

After her mother was murdered.

 _"She doesn't usually fly off the handle that badly."_ Harry looks over his shoulder at Astor. He sounds like he's trying to reassure himself. I think he's concerned for my safety.

Still, I refrain from any response. His words are too ambiguous. I need this so-called ghost to clearly reply to something I haven't said out loud, thus proving he's only part of my own thoughts. 

Or I need him to be real.

My stepdaughter probably doesn't spend a lot of her copious free time worrying about the opinions of others. But in my case -- the literal devil of her dreams appearing to defeat the reaper and return to plague her once again -- that might well be the source of potentially homicidal friction. Hence her unabashed candor.

Astor stares back at me. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Could you do me a favor?" I ask her. "Could you try to pretend that I really enjoy hearing you swear like my sister?"

A surprised bark of cynical laughter greets my request. Astor looks ready to pick up the phone and have me committed.

"Why?"

"Because maybe then you won't do it as much." I look over at Harry. "I don't suppose you can move objects?"

Harry spreads his translucent, empty hands in a gesture of futility. _"You're kidding, right?"_

"You are nuts." Astor shakes her head. She almost looks sad for me. "You really are."

"Then we do it this way." I hold up the paper with Lenore's address for Harry's inspection. "I need you to find out if she can see you. Or hear you."

Harry bends down and squints. _"That's on the other side of town."_

"I'll be here," I say.

Harry sighs and turns. His tread is still silent on the floor.

"Wait a minute." Rather than a ghost, I'm starting to feel like I'm talking to a robot. "Can't you just -- disappear? And reappear over there?"

 _"I don't know."_ Harry's looking troubled again as he turns back toward me. _"I've never done anything like that."_

I give an encouraging nod, more than a little impatient. "No time like the present."

 _"Honestly?"_ Harry pauses, then shakes his head. _"I'd be scared to try."_

I bite back a growl of frustration. In response, Astor lets out a peal of genuine laughter. The difference is striking. For a moment, she's the girl I know and remember.

"Glad I'm providing you with entertainment." I sound more than a bit sour, given my own enjoyment at her reaction. But she's nowhere near ready to be my friend.

"Anything's better than the Peloponnesian Wars." Astor sounds disgusted by the prospect.

"You mean as a fascinating subject?" I shake my head in wonder at her seeming naivete. "There is almost nothing better than the Peloponnesian Wars."

If Astor thought I was nuts before, this is apparently over the top.

"You're kidding," she says, in a tone that knows otherwise.

"I'm not," I insist. "If you think they're boring? You need a better book."

Her smile fades as she remembers she's supposed to hate me. I can't let it get to me.

 _"I don't know what you're trying to do here."_ Harry sounds stubborn as ever, unyielding in the face of all opposition. _"You're not going to prove anything to her. Not like this."_

"Still not helping," I mutter, off to the side. I'm trying to plan my next move when Astor's expression grows wary once more.

"Who are you talking to?" Her guarded tone is quickly turning aggressive, the color draining once more from her face. "Who do you think you see?"

What I think I see is part of the problem. I remember my own disbelief when Deb came to me claiming she'd seen my murdered wife, alive, in broad daylight and not a vampire. I almost didn't want to believe. I'd briefly gotten angry with Lumen, just for trying to open my mind to further impossibilities.

"Tell me you see my mom." Astor swallows, eyes wide as she trembles slightly. It looks like she's barely holding herself in check. "Fucking try it."

"It's not her." I shake my head. "Or Deb."

"Isn't that convenient." Astor's bitter pronouncement is a barb, sinking into my flesh. I'm losing her more by the moment.

"Can't you at least try?" I turn to Harry, hoping to plead my case without sounding like I'm literally pleading. "This would be a lot easier if I wasn't the crazy one here."

 _"I'm sorry, Dex. But if I disappear -- I might not even come back."_ The pain in Harry's eyes reminds me of the terminal look of his last few weeks in the hospital. _"I can't risk it. Not after I just found you again."_

I bite back another swear. As Astor sadly shakes her head at my pathetic acting ability, all I can think is that there has to be a way. I'm still trying to think of it when a jingle emanates from Astor's hip. I watch as she digs out her phone and peers at the screen.

"Angel's coming by to check on me." Astor shoves the phone in her pocket with a look of annoyed resignation. "He won't be here long. But you need to keep out of sight. And shut the --"

She glares at me a moment longer. Finally she shakes her head.

"Just be quiet."

I watch her turn and walk away. There's a vague, cold sensation festering in my belly. Slowly churning away like rancid butter.

 _"I could have told you that was a lost cause."_ Harry's fatalistic words fall from his lips, an invisible mist. _"You're not about to win her over any time soon."_

"Maybe not," I say. "But I do have an idea."

I turn and fix him with a hard stare, stopping his question in its tracks.

"And you're going to help."

  


* * *

  


"I understand your concern, _Angel_." Maria's doing the thing where she pinches the bridge of her nose. The usual perfection of her makeup is somewhat marred today, her eyes hollow and worn. "I just feel that you're a bit too close to this particular case. That maybe your continuing presence isn't allowing her to let go and move on --"

"I made a promise." Angel does his best to sound gentle. He stands there at attention in front of her desk, belly pooched out in front of him as he tries to keep his spine straight. "You know I always considered Deb another little sister. So Astor's basically my niece."

"Except for the part where she's nothing of the kind." Maria shakes her head, looking almost amused. "But I can see your mind is made up."

"I'm sorry." Angel doesn't allow his posture to waver. "But I can promise it won't affect my performance on the job."

"The job?" Maria's laugh sounds as hollow as her gaze. "Right now, your job is about as safe as mine. And that's not much."

"No way Matthews would fire you." Angel leans forward, both hands flat on her desk for additional emphasis, pitching his voice _sub rosa_. "Nobody's bulletproof. He can't hang on forever."

"Be careful what you say around here." Maria doesn't bat an eye. They've been through too much together to be concerned about a minor breach in protocol, but it's just the kind of thing their superiors and the career bureaucrats would seize upon. Magnify all out of proportion, until it consumes everything in its path.

"I know." Angel steps back, hands in the air. "You just watch your back, _mi ciela_. I got eyes on mine. Believe me."

"Go." Her gaze softens. It reminds him of all the reasons they should have hooked up years ago. But that ship has definitely sailed, at least in the current political climate.

He's still thinking of that as he waits in the parking lot for Vince to finish up. The sun is out, but there's a decided chill in the air that matches the mood upon his mind. Try as he might to maintain a positive attitude, every visit with Astor seems to end up with both of them stuck. Feeling like there's nothing more to say.

Maybe Maria's right. Sometimes being too close to a situation can cloud your judgement. But after losing so much, Angel isn't willing to let go of this. At least not yet. Not on his or anyone's life.

The sound of heels causes him to look up, as if by instinct. The owner's long skirt, combined with her quick and professional stride, draws his attention in a heartbeat as both cop and man take note of the quick essentials. Brunette. Pretty. Not too old; no longer young. Soft curves, but a tough look that makes Angel think she's taken a few punches. And likely knows how to throw one back. 

"You Batista?" Her voice sounds vaguely British. She doesn't wait for an answer as she holds up a laminated badge on a lanyard. "I was hoping we could chat."

"You buying lunch?" Angel smiles to soften the impact of his words, but he doesn't bother reading the badge. "Maybe later. I got somewhere to be."

"I know." That earns him a nod. Angel can see now she's wearing tasteful gold earrings, a tiny silver cross on a pendant hanging round her neck.

"The Bennett girl," she continues. "I'd like to discuss her case with you."

"She's not really a case." Angel knows he sounds too hesitant. "I'm not officially involved. Just a friend of the family."

"Then that's how I'd discuss it." The woman doesn't miss a beat as she switches gears smoother than his new convertible. "As a friend. Not a cop."

He'd been prepared to argue in his defense. How he preferred to keep it that way, out of respect for Rita. And Deb.

"Understand you knew her aunt," she says.

Angel can see it plain as day on her face, hear it plainer still. All the sordid details of Deb's death and Dexter's _pas de deux_ , all this crap that seems like it'll never be done sending shockwaves through Miami Metro and beyond, and so they don't need to waste time discussing any of that. Frankly, it's a relief.

"Yeah." He keeps it simple. "Good cop."

He knows he's leaving himself wide open on that one. If Deb was all that, how could such a good cop have been blind to her own brother being a serial killer right under her goddamn nose? But the woman nods, accepting this as given.

"And the girl --"

"Astor." He says her name like a challenge. Like he's demanding this stranger exhibit some degree of empathy with her subject. Social workers have always had that reputation of being detached from their own humanity.

The woman just nods. "You said you'd be available later today?"

"Didn't say today." Angel chuckles as he sees Vince coming out the door. "But I can do six o'clock. Unless we get a body."

"I'll meet you back here, then." She pulls a business card from somewhere and hands it over. "Cheers."

He's hoping Vince will check out the newcomer. A return to normal would definitely be nice. And it seems like it would start with a healthy appreciation for feminine charms. Especially if working out is supposed to increase testosterone. But his co-worker merely gives the stranger a quick once-over as he passes by, climbing into the car with a look of impatience.

"Friend of yours?" Vince asks.

"Maybe." Angel lets a little slyness creep in to his voice. "We'll see."

Vince shakes his head with a disapproving frown. "Looks like trouble."

"You may be right. But we're cops." Angel slides the business card into his shirt pocket, waving to its namesake as he pulls out. "We don't sit around waiting for trouble."

"That's right." Vince leans back in his seat, donning a pair of dark plastic sunglasses. "We go out and cause it ourselves."

  


* * *

  


_Original Universe_

Even with the excuse of a holiday to distract everyone from whatever their current predicament might be, Deb's never been much for family gatherings. It's part of why she always liked hanging out with Dexter. None of that touchy-feely crap. The only time she can think of that she actually enjoyed that shit was when she muscled her way into dinner with Doakes. His people had been exactly what she might have expected, friendly and good-natured to a fault. In other words, the polar opposite of her sometime partner and his legendary incendiary temper.

It still stings to realize Dexter's part in his death. A classic case of wrong place, wrong time. And the only thing saving her brother from complete moral culpability -- from going through with his supposedly reluctant plan to murder Doakes and blame it on some random drug dealer -- was the gross English titty vampire herself. Once more Lilah had been the one to poke her finger into the pie and pull the metaphorical trigger, blowing the cabin to bits and incinerating the body beyond recognition. Dexter said it was part of the reason he decided to kill her. Talk about irony.

Deb had come out once and asked Dexter, point blank, if he would make the same call today. She couldn't help but wonder how he could be so casual about hanging his crimes around someone else's neck, even posthumously. A good cop; a good man, innocent of wrongdoing.

Dexter didn't smile at those words. Even though Deb got the impression that he had before. He just got that look as though his brain had gone to outer space, as it furiously calculated beyond light speed. And then he admitted: _I don't know._

She'd never say this out loud, but in some ways, it's almost better without him around. Without all that that pesky hypocrisy and moral ambiguity. Except at Miami Metro, where cases continue to backlog and require reprocessing. And visits here, whenever a lull in the conversation with Lumen and the kids turns into an awkward silence. Or a family dinner when the head of the family has gone AWOL, yanked away to a different universe.

At least they hope. It's better than dead.

It does make it more awkward that Lumen's gone to such obvious trouble this time. Not talking Martha Stewart banquet with rose petals up the front walk, but there's a boneless pork loin just coming out of the oven when Deb arrives, resting on the counter before going back in to finish crisping at a higher temperature. Lumen explains all this to Deb while bustling around the kitchen like some modern day Stepford housewife. Her normally pale cheeks are rosy from the heat, her vampiric movements quick and precise. It's like a raptor with the maneuverability of a hummingbird.

"It's still weird to see you cooking." Deb smiles to show she's just making conversation. "Do you do anything else?"

"I don't like going out." Lumen shakes her head. "It sucks, but -- there's just too much room for things to go wrong."

"That's pretty bleak." Deb tries to offer encouragement. "But it's not like there's more than one Slayer in Miami."

"Other vampires." Lumen tucks back a wayward strand of hair. "I figure it's just best to stay out of trouble."

"Can I help?" Cody peers over the counter. He's getting tall enough that soon he won't have to stand on his toes.

"You are helping." Lumen nods, indicating a gleeful Harrison. The younger boy is currently attached firmly to his older brother's leg, giggling and gazing up in rapt adoration. "You're making sure nobody gets their hands on any of this before it reaches the table."

Cody frowns. "Astor's still in the shower."

"Well, she was out on patrol." Lumen wrinkles her nose as she pulls a pan from the oven that looks like roasted sweet potatoes. "That girl can use all the hot water she wants."

"How come I can't go with her?" Cody gently disengages from Harrison as he climbs up on a chair, elevating him to a more serious height. "I don't mean after midnight. I mean early. Like this."

"Honey -- we talked about this." Lumen doesn't sound overly coddling, but she does turn and give Cody her full attention. Deb almost laughs at the sight of her standing there, wearing a pair of oversized welder's gloves in place of oven mitts. "It's too dangerous."

Cody's doing a better job than usual of trying not to whine, but he still looks frustrated. "It's not fair."

"I know," Lumen says. It's clear he has her sympathy, if not her support. "Life is pretty much all about that."

"How come you don't go on patrol?" Cody frowns, looking doubtful. "You're strong."

"Remember we tried?" Lumen seems a little embarrassed, glancing at a confused Deb. "I guess I kind of mess up her radar."

Deb gets a chuckle out of that. But her stomach is starting to rumble. She's about to snag a roll behind Lumen's back, risking being caught by superhuman speed, before Astor saves her by finally emerging from the bathroom.

"About time." Deb easily falls into the casual shit talking that's becoming the norm when addressing her niece. Something like professional courtesy. "How long does it take to powder your nose?"

"Says the woman who only wears a skirt to funerals." Astor's response is quick and easy, but there's a subtle undertone of morbid humor as she takes her seat.

"I wore plenty of skirts when I worked undercover." Deb doesn't think it necessary to mention she was pretending to be a hooker.

Astor is fully dressed, but her hair is still damp, quickly rubbed with a towel and left to hang loose. Combined with her bare feet, it gives her the look of a feral child dragged from the woods where she's been running with the wolves. A quick bath and some clean clothes, and she's ready to learn table manners.

It actually reminds Deb a little too much of Dana. Who she hasn't heard from today, and is actually kind of starting to miss. Never thought she'd be saying it about the girl (woman) who once knocked her out and wrapped her up like a fish for market.

Funny what you can get used to.

Astor has an expectant look as the rest of them turn to face her. She waits until she has everyone's attention, including a baffled-looking Harrison.

"Can I pray for Dexter?"

It's not like Deb is thrown for a loop. Even if Astor hadn't just gone to church to confess her guilt over killing an innocent man who got in harm's way, it wouldn't be all that weird. And still, Deb can't help thinking it's a bit childish. Magical thinking at its finest; something she'd expect more from Cody after barely having moved beyond Santa and the Easter Bunny. Yet Astor is apparently sincere.

Lumen looks a little confused at first, but her expression quickly clears. The very image of totally supportive stepmom. "Of course."

Astor looks over at Dexter's empty chair, then bows her head. The others follow suit, with Cody sneaking a glance at his sister from the corner of one eye. Deb only notices because she's peeking too.

"Dear God."

There's a quiver in Astor's voice, as she pauses to gather courage or wisdom.

"Please let Dexter make it back home."

She takes a deep breath.

"Please let him be okay." 

Deb can get behind that. She's just waiting to see what --

"Amen."

Deb forces herself to overcome the sense of hesitation and firmly echo the final affirmation. Everyone else joins in as well, although Harrison's effort sounds more like his all-purpose _die-die_.

Lumen meets Astor's gaze as they all look up. "Thank you."

Astor shakes her head, looking back down at her plate. Lumen doesn't pursue it as she starts passing dishes.

"As always -- if anything came out wrong, you can fire the cook." Lumen shoots a look at Astor. "Just not out of a cannon, into the sun."

"No way," Deb insists, through a muffled bite. She can't remember when she last had pork this freaking tender and juicy. "This is freaking awesome."

"I did a marinade," Lumen says. "White wine and orange juice. Not too much garlic."

Cody's piling his potatoes high as Deb looks around. There's a centerpiece of flowers, and they're even using the good plates. Except for the absence of Dexter, it's all very lovely. Until she glances over to see Lumen's place set bare. Just a little thermos cup with a straw.

"Faith says vampires can eat food," Astor informs the table at large, as she sees Deb looking. "Just for fun. But most of them don't bother."

"I tried." Lumen makes a face. "Didn't go so well."

"Well -- keep trying." It's all Deb can think to say as she tries not to shovel her dinner down too fast. "Maybe you'll find something you like."

Lumen nods. But despite her obvious pleasure at seeing everyone enjoying the fruits of her labor, she wears a melancholy look as she sits there sipping her gently warmed sheep's blood.

Deb hates thinking that this is how it's going to be from now on. But they don't have a clue where Dexter is. Or when he might come home. If ever. When is it going to make more sense to start acting like --

She grunts in pain. Lumen looks up, startled.

"You okay?"

"Bit my tongue," Deb mumbles. She tries to ignore the flickered, lingering gaze; the slight flaring of Lumen's delicate nostrils, the barely repressed quiver and slightly deeper breath.

"God, Cody." Astor sounds mildly scandalized. "You need to _chew_ your food."

Deb swallows as the flow of conversation resumes around her. It tastes like copper and all of a sudden she can't have Dexter back fast enough in this house, in this _world_.

Helping her make sense of it all.

  


* * *

  


_This is so stupid._ Astor's mutter held dire imprecations. 

_And when it doesn't work, you can laugh at how stupid I am._ I hadn't tried for a smile. I'm told mine still need work.

From the look on her face, I might as well have not bothered. But all I can do is keep doing my best. And hope for something better.

I'm to remain out here, on the patio, with no way inside the house. Astor and Angel will conduct their monthly meeting out on the front lawn, at maximum remove from me while remaining on the property. We argued briefly over the possibility of hidden cameras and microphones before finally settling on this approach.

The obvious and straightforward plan is that Harry will observe them. If he can report the details of their conversation back to me, that will serve as minor evidence for Astor of some consciousness independent of mine. And just as importantly, Harry's testimony will hopefully serve as even stronger corroborating evidence to me that he exists. Evidence, as I told her. Not proof. I think I actually got her interested in the subject of logic. As long as she doesn't associate it with me.

I don't know what I'm expecting. I don't even know what I want. But I know that I came to this world by magical means. That much is indisputable. And if magic exists in this world, as it does in mine, then it's possible that a ghost can be real.

That I can find a way home.

I drop to the bricks and reel off a quick twenty pushups. I'd like to go for a run around the yard, but I promised not to leave this spot. So I sit down with my back against one of the wooden posts lining the railing that runs around the deck. I let my breathing slow. I wait.

I wait.

The curtain remains utterly motionless as Harry steps through the thick plush fabric, through the glass door and onto the patio. It feels like about half an hour has passed. Maybe less.

 _"She's on her way."_ Harry's troubled expression has taken on a new and sharper quality. It's like the look he got when he decided that my brother couldn't be saved. _"But you're not going to like this."_

"Very little of this has been to my liking," I reply.

_"I meant either of you."_

"You just worry about filling me in." Harry's dolorous declaration fails to put a damper on my expectations. "If you can."

I see the rustle of the curtain being drawn aside. Astor peers out and fixes me with a stare before sliding the door open.

"He's gone."

 _"She means they're gone,"_ Harry says.

"Who was with him?" I ask.

Astor narrows her eyes in suspicion. "No one."

 _"It was Vince."_ Harry follows as I walk back inside. _"Be careful, Dex."_

"How is Vince?" I direct this to Astor. In response, she almost blinks.

 _"They called your brother by his adopted name,"_ Harry says. _"Rudy Cooper."_

I relay this. Astor remains clearly unimpressed. I'm sure there are plenty of pieces of paper in the house with that name.

_"Angel asked how she was. Astor said she was fine."_

"Pretty generic." Astor turns and walks away. I follow her to the counter, where she busies herself making a peanut butter sandwich.

 _"Angel wanted to know if she was still having the dreams."_ Harry looks and sounds like he's walking on eggshells. Ones that are filled with land mines. _"Astor said they were different now. But that was all she said. She clearly didn't want to talk about it."_

I repeat this, word for word. Astor pauses in mid knife-stroke. Then she resumes her motion, being noticeably more careful not to tear the bread.

 _"Vince said she ought to come bowling with them some night."_ Harry's voice is soft. _"How Deb would have enjoyed that."_

My repetition causes considerably more tension this time. Another in the string of constant reminders that Astor needs only the flimsiest excuse to do me harm.

"What --" Astor clears her throat and swallows, more angry than nervous. "What did I call Vince?"

I turn to Harry and raise my eyebrows, waiting for an answer. It's not what I expected. 

"A kumquat," I repeat. It's almost tempting to try another smile. "Really?"

Astor is looking down at her partially constructed sandwich. The knife she's clutching in her right hand is a good old fashioned butter knife, rounded and dull. But even her slight muscle and the right target could sink it deep into my body, causing a great deal of damage. And pain.

"What --" Astor takes a deep breath. "What exactly did I say?"

 _"'You really are such a flaming kumquat.'"_ Harry waits for me at the end of each sentence as I them in turn, Astor's eyes growing wider and wider with every word. _"And Vince looked confused and asked what that meant. And you told him to go look it up on Urban Dictionary and quit bothering little girls, and honestly? I think he was a little hurt by that."_

Even in profle I can see the struggle on Astor's face. To keep up her disbelief; to refrain from taking out all that grief and rage on the most conveniently available target.

 _"And then she asked Angel --"_ Despite his lack of a body or associated functions, I see Harry's throat bob, in a nervous swallow. _"If you were really dead."_

This could be bad.

_"Angel said, why would you ask me such a thing? And Astor said, quit your bullshit. Because I never saw a body, okay? Never put my finger in the wound, all doubting Thomas and shit."_

At least her theological education hasn't been lacking.

I can see on her face that Astor knows all the arguments. How easy, how trivial it would be to do this with hidden technology. And she knows nothing of actual magic. How easily it can warp reality itself into something else entirely.

 _"Vince said it was in the papers. And that she was a little young to be going full Kennedy assassination."_ Harry doesn't look too happy about the direction this is taking. _"I'm sure he was trying to make a joke."_

I keep one eye on Astor, the other on the nearest potential weapon that's not in her hand. At the moment, my best contender is a pair of pearl-handled chopsticks. Maybe I should continue to 'go bare'. As the Elizabethans say.

 _"She looked down at the ground. Like she was deliberately trying to keep anyone from reading her lips."_ Harry shakes his head. _"I've seen it before. Whenever someone figured out they were under surveillance. And she told him to --"_

"Never mind." Astor's interjection is quick and cold. Her hands are splayed out flat on the counter, the forgotten knife smearing its cargo of peanut butter on the smokey grey tiles. 

"You know what's bullshit? Ghosts." Astor pronounces this with a near snarl, stalwart in her refusal to look at me. "And magic. And whatever other bullshit you try to put in my head. But _something_ \--" She raises her fist, punctuates it with a slam on the counter -- "is going on here."

 _"Angel said they should probably go. And then Astor apologized."_ Harry still resembles the voice of doom. _"She asked if they could watch the neighborhood more often. That she might have seen a suspicious stranger around recently. Angel said not to worry. That they were on it, one hundred percent."_

"Why are you doing this?" Astor's trying to keep from crying again. It's not working. "Why couldn't you just stay fucking dead?"

_"When she came inside, she went somewhere else."_

Harry's watching both of us. Like a dead hawk.

 _"It's a hidden room. An entrance under the pantry floor."_ Harry's words roll out and onward, an inexorable death march. _"I thought she might be going to get a gun, so I followed. When the door was shut, she said --"_

My tongue is numb. I feel like a puppet, mindlessly mimicking every word as the deluge continues to flow. 

_"'You'll never hear this, you fucking bastard.'"_

Harry's eyes move back and forth between us. Like he's expecting her any moment to spring at me.

 _"She started --"_ Harry coughs. _"Checking in her clothes. For bugs, I assume. I walked right back out when I realized, but --"_

"Shut up."

Astor takes a deep and shuddering breath. 

"You put a fucking bug on me." Her jaw works for a moment, as if she's trying to get rid of a foul taste. "While I was sleeping or some shit. It could be anywhere, and then you -- fucking _peek_ at me --"

"Astor." I shake my head. "I didn't --"

"He doesn't lie!" Her shout bounces back at her off the tile counter, through the enormous set of rooms around us. Her face is red as she struggles to get her breathing under control.

"You lay one finger on me. You just fucking try it and I don't give a _damn_ what he says, you hear me?" Astor turns her tear-streaked face to me, struggling to keep her eyes open as they burn pure hate into mine. "You're dead."

She nods, backing away from the counter and shaking her head. I look down at her sandwich, at the knife covered in peanut butter.

"You're fucking dead."

Her words echo in my ears as I stare at the forgotten remnants of her lunch.

_"I told you that wouldn't go well."_

"Astor's right about one thing." I grab a paper towel and start cleaning up the mess. "At least for right now? Shut up."

I don't bother looking over to see his disappointment in me. I find some plastic wrap for the sandwich, tucking it up nice and neat. Then I put it away in the black and chrome refrigerator, all the while doing my damndest to not feel depressed. Downcast. Demoralized.

It still isn't proof. And it's not good enough. Not for me, and certainly not Astor. Not when every step I take toward reconciliation invariably seems to end with me up to my ass in the swamp, surrounded by alligators.

I wander through the house in search of enlightenment. What I do find is light, and plenty of it. The front sitting room has a multiangled picture window with a reclining chair, in a perfect position to enjoy the view.

I sink into the chair with a sigh and close my eyes. The afternoon sun isn't directly upon me, but the room is warm. I feel it slowly settle into my bones, helping ease the knotted tension in my muscles.

I'm thinking there has to be something I'm missing. It only reminds me I'm missing all too many somethings. I don't even know what they are. I've made some small amount of progress on proving Harry's existence. It seems as though I can trust him, at least so far. And yet rather than going away, the chill in my stomach seems to be spreading its tendrils throughout my body, into every last nook and cranny. Trying to resist the warmth and the light.

There must be someone I can talk to.

  


* * *

  


"You're sure you want to stick around?" Vince tries not to sound too horribly skeptical. "In broad daylight?"

"Hey, that's when creepers do their recon." Angel nods. "Scout a place out. See if it's worth it, coming back after dark."

Vince doesn't argue. Angel is the expert, after all. Each of them on the team has their specialty, and some of them are more cerebral than others. It's not his fault he's still playing catch-up. Not after their smartest guy turned out to be playing for his own team.

No matter what names Astor might call him, Vince doesn't mind sticking around for as long as Angel feels necessary. Though he did want to make it out again later. He still hasn't found anything concrete, but he always holds out hope of meeting a fellow traveller. Anything more than your garden variety X-Files reject who hears even more voices when they forget their meds.

Angel's watching the way they came, back up the street. Vince digs in the glove box for the pair of mini binoculars, finding them without too much trouble. He only wants to see if he can spot a deer in the side yard. They're surprisingly common in the city, where they're legally protected from being hunted. He has no idea why his first impulse on raising them to his face is to hone in on the front window of Dr. Cooper's magnificent home, far away across the lawn.

Vince fiddles with the focus, frowning as he does. Then he sees something.

Or rather, someone. A man, sitting in a chair, just a little ways back from the window. He looks like he's sleeping.

He looks like Dexter.

Vince Masuka is riding in a reasonably expensive convertible. With faux white leather interior. With a trusted partner and good friend at the wheel, who's still paying for the car.

And he has just come closer than ever, in his entire adult life, to fully and completely soiling his own pants.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dexter struggles with information gathering. Vince plays it cool. Angel extends the hand of friendship. Dexter is deeply disturbed. Deb has a rare conversation with one of the highest of the higher-ups. Two familiar faces. And one is the loneliest number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting into disturbing territory. Rest assured that the warning labels are accurate, and that as far as this particular squick is concerned, things won't get too much worse.

For Vince Masuka, the last couple of years have been a decidedly mixed bag. For every time he reaches in to find a fun or interesting treat, there's more than one where his fingers come to rest on something cold and slimy. More than once he's known; seen it coming from a mile away. And still there's been no way to avoid the oncoming train.

So far he's been one of the luckier ones. Most of the public outrage, and the wrath coming down from on high, is directed at LaGuerta. This means anyone in her circle gets hit with the shit. And it seems like even before the stories about Dexter started to appear in the papers, on round the clock TV coverage and on countless websites worldwide, Chief Matthews has been living on a diet of prunes and Ex-Lax.

Except Vince has never taken the slightest interest in departmental politics, one way or another. Apart from the shemale stuff, he's kept his nose squeaky clean. Been a good little uncontroversial Asian. A hard-working employee whose diligence more than makes up for his passing grades and occasional quirks. So when it came time to replace disgracefully departed Dexter as head lab geek, nobody was surprised to see the magnificent Mr. Masuka moved to the front of the line. He likes the perks, but with no bump in salary forthcoming, it's hardly sufficient reward in exchange for all the hassles and headaches. He still doesn't know how Dexter managed to pull it off. Let alone so deviously.

Dick.

He has to admit, the guy was a good teacher. It's scary sometimes remembering just how good. But every time Vince finds himself stuck on something seemingly insurmountable, or just plain inscrutable, he always goes back to those early lessons Dexter impressed upon him when they first started working together.

It just terrifies him to think how oblivious he'd been. Makes him wonder if Dexter really liked him, or just saw him as a walking sack of blood. Like everyone else on the planet.

Right now, Vince is trying to swallow. Trying not to make a little noise in his throat that might draw the attention of his partner sitting beside him. Trying to look nothing but casual as he stares through the mini-binoculars, frozen at the sight in the glass.

Because that is absolutely Dexter Morgan he's looking at. Or someone identical to the man, right down to the dimple. Sitting back in a reclining chair, eyes closed, wearing a pair of tan slacks and a white dress shirt. Just far enough back to be out of the sun, coming through the window --

"Hey, you want a smoothie?" Vince sounds perfectly at ease. "That chili dog the other day really did me dirty."

"Sure." Angel shrugs. He's still looking in the other direction, back up the street as they sit at the end of the cul-de-sac. "As long as it doesn't have any of that green shit."

"It's called spirulina," Vince helpfully informs his colleague as he opens the glove box, shoving the binoculars all the way in back. "And it's blue. But I can get you some green shit." 

"So that's how you've been spending your nights." Angel looks over and shakes his head with an admiring chuckle. "Diving for ditch weed."

Vince puts finger and thumb to his lips, as he mimes sucking a joint. "Save the bales."

More than ever before, Vince feels like he's putting on a Bruce Wayne act. The happy go lucky would-be playboy. Sex and drugs and rock and roll, a new party every night. All while he continues to pump iron and chug protein, obsessing over things that refuse to add up.

And now he's seen a dead man.

The worst part is that it's a death he pronounced his own self, right on the scene. A more or less obvious suicide, complete with signed confession. In blood. The crimson scrawl across the wall read: _IT WAS MY FAULT._ Followed by _IM SO SORRY_ , and finally a hasty, looping _Dexter_. In cursive.

If only that had been the end of it. If he hadn't been forced to examine Rita's lovely nude body, still wet and dripping, maybe Vince wouldn't feel like shit every time he remembers how they were fooled for so long. After all that drama and destruction, it would be the crowning glory -- the fucking cherry on top -- to find out Dexter faked his own death.

But even as scary smart as the guy was, Vince doesn't see how it's possible. He saw the body. Laid his own gloved hands upon it, feeling his stomach churn as those lifeless eyes stared up at him in supplication.

Except there's another possible answer. One far crazier. And yet which now, seems horrifyingly plausible.

The old Vince wouldn't have even considered it. Not until recently. He would have laughed it off as the delusions of a shut-in, high on bad TV fantasy. But as the months go by, the circumstantial evidence piling higher and deeper, he's taken to carrying a few extra supplies whenever he happens to be out after dark. Some could get him laughed at. Others could get him locked up, even with his special dispensation as law enforcement. And for all his careful preparation, he has yet to see concrete evidence for any of his wild suspicions. No actual proof to support his homegrown hypotheses. Any mention of which to the wrong person could easily get him Bakered into a psych ward.

There has to be someone who can help.

Someone who knows what the hell's going on.

  


* * *

  


I'm dozing in the heat. As Doakes might say, like a lizard. It feels better so far than anything I've experienced in this world.

The Passenger chuckles, slithering in and nestling deep. The memory of hot blood welling up under my hands evokes a silent glee. I can't deny that it fills the ache and the void.

But it's no longer enough to feel not so broken, for a time. Right now I need Astor -- _this_ Astor, this devil's child trained in all manner of dark arts -- to allow me to help her. Even if Brian means well with his training, she's not the emotionless wreck we were as toddlers. For her, the Code has been bolted on rather than a custom tailored fit. It's like a grafted limb that's being rejected by her immune system. Or in this case, her own moral code.

If Lumen had somehow managed to survive, without my having stumbled upon her, she might well have succumbed completely to the darkness. Allowed the need for blood to rule her existence. Most likely, it would have destroyed her. Probably long before she managed to find or take vengeance on any of the men who had done her wrong. 

I shift in the chair, enjoying the thickly upholstered cushions. I'm realizing what I should have already taken for granted. Namely, that Brian will never let me leave the house. It would be insane to allow it. Whatever the circumstances of my death, it seems recent enough that stepping foot anywhere outside other than the back patio -- well out of sight from the street, or prying neighbors -- will be strictly forbidden. For all intents and purposes, I'm a dead man.

If Astor moves quietly enough, she can sneak up behind me. Sink a knife into my neck before I even know she's there.

I open my eyes. The sun's rays have moved across the floor of the sitting room by a few hairs' breadth. Astor is nowhere in sight.

As I run my eyes over the myriad of intricately carved surfaces, the golden stained wood of polished floorboards, I realize I'm staring at myself. Out from an enormous mirror, on the other side of the room, beside the front door.

 _"I don't want to do that again."_ Harry stands in the doorway leading to the kitchen area.

I look over to find the craggy canyons of his face holding an anger I've rarely seen. It seems in part directed at himself. The gratitude of a father reunited with his long-lost son is fled, along with his blue jeans and plain buttoned shirt, to be replaced with what looks like his only good suit. It's the one he wore when he had to testify in court. Or give speeches at weddings.

 _"I mean it."_ Harry strides silently over to my chair, staring down at me with a familiar stubbornness. _"I won't violate her privacy."_

"I thought you were on my side." I sit up and lean over, craning my neck to peer down the hall. Throughout the house, the only sound I can hear is the faint whisper and hum of central air conditioning.

_"I am, son. But you can't ask me --"_

"In case you hadn't noticed?" My attempt to curtail my volume results in my words coming out in more of a hiss. "That girl wants me dead."

 _"It hadn't escaped my attention."_ Harry's anger vanishes in the blink of an eye, his concern once more in full bloom. _"You can't stay here, Dex. Not if you want to keep breathing."_

"What I need to do is get you across town." I rise to my feet and tread lightly until I gain a full visual down to the end of the hallway. No sight or sound of Astor. Or anything.

_"What in the world is some two-bit palm reader going to bring to the table?"_ Harry's beginning to appear downright irritated. _"What can she possibly add to the discussion?"_

____

____

"You're a ghost," I mutter. The irony of the situation is not lost on me. I kind of wish it was. For a moment, I teeter on the precipice.

"In my world? This woman is an ex-vengeance demon." I let that sink in as I lean forward for emphasis. "A professional chaos mage. Capable of rewriting the universe with a snap of her well-manicured fingers."

I'm not sure how much of this he actually believes. I could have guessed it wouldn't provide much reassurance either way. Harry looks like a man in the path of an oncoming train, helpless to move aside.

"If the one here knows that magic is real, she could have all kinds of useful information. Even if she can't see or hear you." The more I think about it, the more I like my odds. "And compared to the kind of power you need to travel between dimensions? You'd think talking to the dead would be paint by the numbers."

 _"What the hell happened to you, Dex?"_ Harry still wears the angry look of a hardened skeptic. _"You've always been about evidence. Hard facts. This isn't even tinfoil hat territory."_

"Methinks the ghost protest too much." As I look more closely, I realize that the cuffs of his suit are slightly worn, just like I remember. The level of detail is uncanny. 

I'd be the first to admit definite uncertainty on the whole psychic angle. But my first dance with the forces of darkness had found me tangled up with a vampire who was the spitting image of my murdered wife. And the one who served as her primary partner in crime had been a seeming madwoman whose rambling nonsense could often correctly intuit events to come. I'd even seen Rita herself temporarily returned to me, by unseen and inscrutable forces beyond our comprehension. After something like that, I don't think it's unreasonable to keep an open mind. 

Harry stands in my path, blocking the doorway.

_"You need to be thinking very clearly about your next move."_

"I am."

Harry's face flickers as I step through his intangible existence. For a split second I feel a mild chill.

My vision clears. I'm standing in the kitchen looking out the window. Astor is in the back yard under the rose arbor, talking into her phone. Her left hand makes wild and angry gestures in the air.

I walk over to the counter. The French press parts are still laid out on a clean towel from this morning. I reassemble them and begin the production of another pot, resisting the urge to keep looking out the window. Harry stands off to the side, silently watching my every move.

Eventually I hear footsteps approaching. The door slides open.

"He'll be back soon."

Astor says it like a prediction of fatality. She brushes past me, the barest whisper of our shirts brushing against each other.

"I have to get changed."

  


* * *

  


"That cue ball done with my spatter report?"

While not pacing around the room, Doakes is bristling like a full on boar brush even as he sits at his desk with a cup of coffee. His open necked polo shirt appears to be on the verge of tearing under the strain of his bulging biceps, like he's been caught in the midst of some sort of rage-fueled transformation.

"You really ought to try yoga." Angel shakes his head. "Go swim some laps or something. Before you type A yourself into a coronary."

"I swear, you're starting to sound just like him." Doakes drains his cup in one gulp with a hearty grimace. "The penis that walks like a man."

"Vince does what he can. He's not that bad." Angel doesn't get into who they have to compare him to. "Seriously -- ease up."

"Oh, I'm serious." Doakes lowers his voice, looking around before leaning in close. "The dude looks like a schlong on legs. You're telling me that shit is natural?"

Angel's not having much luck keeping his laughter down to a dull roar. He just hopes the wrong person doesn't walk in. But until they get a call, their options are to wait on reports from other people or to work on filing their own. He's not too far behind, just enough that Maria could ride his ass if she wanted to. That thought makes him laugh even harder.

"You should come drinking with us," Angel says, when he finally recovers. He waves away the incredulous look from Doakes. "We need someone like you around."

"Get a white guy." Doakes rolls his eyes, sounding only mildly irritated.

"I'm sure he'll have your report before the end of the shift." Angel looks over at the window into Maria's office. Apparently Chief Matthews has been laying down the law to her since before Angel got back from his visit with Astor.

"So try not to bitch about it," Angel adds. "Unless it's in crayon."

Doakes pauses in mid-bark. Then he sighs and bows his head, rubbing his hands over his face, all over his own bald brown pate. It only serves to make his frequent disparaging remarks about Vince all the more incongruous.

"Sorry, man." His voice is quieter. "I just can't look at that shit. Not when I know the motherfucker's still out there."

"Don't sweat it." Angel accepts the unexpected apology in a smooth but quick interception, watching through the lieutenant's window. The Chief is wrapping up his stem-winder, letting Maria know in no uncertain terms that it's her hindquarters on the chopping block.

"So." Angel makes it sound casual. "You think he's still giving her shit about the Butcher?"

"What the fuck?" Doakes sounds more confused than annoyed at the mention of their former colleague. Or rather, the media's nickname for him. Personally, Angel is still fond of the Jesus sketch put together by police artists working off a description given by a frightened little boy. He remembers Maria's face when he said it looked like Dexter.

"Case closed, man." Now Doakes is sounding annoyed. "Didn't I always say --"

"All that stuff that got tossed out." Angel ticks off the bullet points on his fingers. "Conflicting evidence. Chain of custody violations --"

"What do you want from me?" Doakes looks around before turning and glaring at Angel. "Yeah. It's bullshit. But what are you gonna do?"

"I --"

"You gonna jam the whole department up all over again?" Doakes rolls on, refusing to let Angel get a word in. "Just when we're starting to put this shit behind us?"

"I don't want it behind me if it's gonna bite me in the ass." Angel reaches into his desk and pulls out his latest favorite folder. It's a gentle purple, like his second favorite hat. It always serves as the perfect excuse to avoid talking to someone.

In the case of Chief Matthews, who's just leaving LaGuerta's office, it works exactly as intended. Angel doesn't even look up from his folder as the Chief powers by. The man's clearly said it all, and with the lieutenant properly chastised, it's now up to her to motivate the troops. Hopefully with more carrot than stick.

Angel would love nothing more than to stick up for his oldest and dearest friend. But locking horns with the Chief would be a nightmare. It certainly doesn't help that the man has more money on his side now than ever before. With the recent budget cuts, Dr. Cooper's generous donations are the only thing keeping the department's head still above water. In the meantime, the rest of them are desperately struggling below the surface. Same as it ever was. Only more so.

And Cooper's reputation is impeccable. It's why he'd been approved to act as Astor's ward when her grandparents were killed in a tragic home invasion. He'd remained a member of the Morgan family even after Deb's murder, and taking the girl in had been a natural fit. Everyone thought that might change when the truth came out. But Rudy only insisted it made it more vital than ever to try to repair the damage Dexter had done. That he owed it to Deb.

Not to mention on top of his dedication to being a single dad, the guy still manages at least one charity case every week. Angel's lost track of the long parade of grateful crime and accident victims who've been given a new leash on life once the good doctor applies his magic touch to their broken flesh. From fires to car crashes, from gunshots to stab and slice wounds, the man's a damn miracle worker. Half the time, the scars are nearly invisible. 

"See? Here he comes now." Angel nods as Vince walks in the door. "The man of the hour."

"Give me that." Doakes snatches the paperwork from Masuka's hands, sending a quick token glare at him before scanning the top sheet. 

"Is there a problem?" Vince doesn't even sound all that sarcastic. No more than usual.

Doakes narrows his eyes into a slitted stare of suspicion.

"You're too damn distracted lately." Doakes nearly spits the words out. "Why don't you go back to getting laid already?"

"Just trying to keep my pension," Vince says. His round glasses and placid gaze make Angel think of an owl, waiting patiently for the sun to go down. "Same as you, sarge."

Doakes shakes his head as he watches Vince walk away. "You're not bringing him along."

Angel quells the temptation to clap the other man on the shoulder. With his luck, he'll end up in traction. Doakes doesn't like to talk about his time in Special Forces, but Angel's seen those hair trigger reflexes in action enough to be more than cautious.

"I drink with him all the time," Angel says. "So I want to drink with you sometime. If you're not too good for me."

"Jesus, Batista." Doakes appears to be fighting a smile. "Why don't you send me some fucking posies before you try to liquor me up?"

"Appreciate the thought. But I already got a date." Angel fishes in his pocket for the worker's card, displaying it to a puzzled Doakes. "Hopefully we won't spend the whole time talking business."

Doakes shakes his head, with an incredulous snort.

"At least someone on this squad is acting like a goddamn human being."

  


* * *

  


"Dexter."

There's a profound relief in my brother's voice as he walks into the kitchen and sees me standing there. Before I can respond, he strides up and sweeps me into an almost crushing embrace. I can hear the keys jingle in his hand. He hasn't even set them down on the counter.

I'm too startled to do anything but return the hug. I add enough force to get him to grunt and ease off.

"Sorry," Brian murmurs. He continues to hold me, running his hands over my back in gentle pats and strokes. One would think this is meant to comfort me. But it feels more as though he's reassuring himself of my solidity. Of my unexpected presence in his world.

"It's been a little tense," I manage. Again I mirror his motions, in an awkward attempt to provide some non-verbal communication. Every cue, every touch, every smell from sweat to cologne tells me this really is happening.

I have no choice but to trust my senses. That and my mind are all I have. And a stubborn ghost of a cop who picked a fine time to start worrying about anyone's rights. Let alone those of a minor and, I assume, a murderer. If Astor hasn't been the one to wield the blade at least once since Brian took her under his wing, I'll be very surprised. 

There's got to be some way to verify his good faith. Then again, if I were the innocent party and suspicious of someone else, I might well appear to them to be guilty. And whether my brother is a shrewd and cunning psychopath or merely a bloodthirsty vigilante trying to follow the Code, he's not about to let his guard down. Not until he decides how much he can trust me.

Brian lets out a quiet sigh of satisfaction, giving me a final squeeze before disengaging.

"Where's Astor?" His eyes look darker, more hollow than usual. I wonder how he slept last night. But his exhausted smile is friendly and open, the perfect picture of a relatable fellow human. Throw in a white coat and a stethoscope, and I can easily picture him dispensing comfort and reassurance to fearful patients or concerned relatives with equal aplomb.

"She said she had to get changed." I try to think of a medical joke. "She seems a little young for menopause."

Brian's eyes widen. Then a brief, barking guffaw issues forth. It's like he's just witnessed something unprecedented.

"We do have a lot to talk about." He shakes his head, tousled curls jiggling with the motion. "I got a shower in at work, so -- after you."

My eyes follow his gesture. The dark wooden hall leads away from the kitchen, entirely in the other direction from the rooms I've already seen. I realize I haven't been down that way.

I try to ignore my hackles rising as I feel Brian fall in behind me. The hall is narrow but short, with light ahead. As we approach the door, tall and majestic, I see another deadbolt. I wonder if it leads outside.

"It shouldn't be locked." Brian lowers his voice, with the slightest note of encouragement. "Go ahead."

I'm fully prepared for Astor to come flying at me as I open the door, like some tiny demented Cato. (Rita made me watch the first Pink Panther movie. It was pure torture at the time.)

Instead, I walk into something even bigger.

The first thing I notice about the room is that it's enormous. Running the length of the house from front to back and then some, it has to be in order to encompass the swimming pool. Somewhat less than Olympic size, it's nonetheless impressive, with pristine blue tiles and an inlaid stone floor that runs all the way around the pool proper. The walls are white and windowless, adorned with lamps on sconces, while the extra high ceiling is dotted with round skylights of various assorted size. Their glass is frosted, cutting down slightly on incoming light while protecting against any peeping satellites.

"Extra thick." Brian nods at the overhead windows, as he notices me examining them. "Hurricane rated."

A second oak door at the far end of the room sports an ornate brass handle similar to the one we just came through. This door also has a frosted window of its own. I can see light on the other side. 

"Right through there." Brian indicates the far door. 

The scent of chlorine hangs heavy in the air, making my nose itch. Water laps the side of the pool as I draw closer. For a moment I'm frozen with my hand on the knob. Then I force myself to turn it and step through.

The room is almost as large as the first, with a lower ceiling and a great deal more natural light from the windows along the far wall. Another door to my right stands ajar, revealing what looks to be a changing room and sauna. The rest of this area is wide open and mostly empty, with rubber and foam mats all over the concrete floor. The smattering of exercise equipment that lies scattered about doesn't look like it gets much use.

Astor stands in the middle of the room, facing us. She wears the impatient look of someone who's been waiting. Her sweatpants match her sweatshirt and her mood. Cloudy and grey.

I don't like the look in her eye. What little I can see of it through the hair that falls over her face. But as my gaze falls to her right hand, and the thing she's clutching in it, I feel a sudden surge of optimism.

"What happened to your knife?" I ask.

Astor's expression is uglier than ever as she holds up her hand-carved wooden stake. 

"I don't need a fucking knife."

"Well." Brian chuckles and walks past me. "Since I'm pretty sure we won't be going up against any vampires --" 

Astor and I watch as he begins pulling the mats together to cover one large area.

"I did think it was time we brush up on your blade handling skills." Brian finishes his assembly and stands, dusting off his hands. "Give me a second to get changed."

I'm ready for anything as he disappears into the changing room. Astor merely continues to stare at me as the door clicks shut. I wonder where Harry's gotten to.

Astor cocks her head. The look on her face is almost clinical, a calculating assessment.

"You want to fuck me?"

"I --" I'm too stunned to think straight. "I don't want to hear you say that."

She gives me a cynical snort, her defiant stance easing up as she looks away.

"You don't." Astor sounds like she's trying to play it off. Like she totally knew all along how I'd react. Was only trying to mess with my head.

"I don't," I repeat. I don't know how to convey my complete and utter conviction. "Not in any sense of the word."

"He doesn't either." Astor delivers this conclusion with a lofty dismissal, the jaded certainty of one made worldly beyond her tender years. The scowl on her face as she glances over at the door to the changing room seems little more than open contempt.

"I should hope not," I say. I find it nearly impossible to imagine. The very idea evokes a vague sensation of something warm and red that tickles the edge of my thoughts. A faint and far-off echo of the rage that would possess me when the person on my table happened to be a killer of kids. That offends me on every level. Makes me want to expand my horizons to include those who destroy a child's innocence.

Astor's eyes are a stormy sea, her posture tense with anticipation. I realize my bad mood is showing all too readily on my former poker face. I can't go around wearing my heart on my sleeve. Not when the person I'm spending most of my time around sees it as nothing more than a target.

"Glad to see you haven't killed each other."

I look over. Brian wears loose-fitting grey sweatpants and a matching top, a mirror image of Astor's outfit. His feet are bare, pale and thin, his toenails perfectly buffed and pedicured. 

"We'll just pretend that's got an edge as well as a point." He nods at Astor's homemade stake before giving me a bashful smile. "And maybe you can chime in, if you think I'm doing it wrong."

I don't bother. Mostly because I'm not ready to contradict him. Conflict between parental figures can lead to all sorts of problems for a kid. And for the parents.

My other motivation is to see what and how Brian teaches her. Which again turns out to be pretty much how I'd go about it. The only difference in my case had been accommodating the superhuman strength and speed my Astor was still in the process of learning to control. Her accidental killing of an innocent and well-meaning man had been a sobering experience, even before her confession to the priest who in good faith had been the one to send her victim into battle.

"Don't look at him." Brian's chastisement is the most mildly reproving tone I can imagine. Yet Astor's attention immediately refocuses, virtually slamming a door to shut me out of her sight.

I watch their routine with interest. Brian starts with finger drills, to build strength and dexterity. Once they're both warmed up he switches focus to defending against a knife, as well as the often related topic of taking someone's knife away from them. One of his scenarios is almost identical to my frantic struggle in Liddy's van, where I'd had to defend myself with my hands tied before turning the man's own blade upon him, sinking it deep in his chest.

I'm starting to realize just how emotionally starved Astor must be. For all that she swears she hates me and wants me dead, it seems she just can't stay away. And whatever keeps calling her back is more than just the desire to fling barbed insults and see if anything sticks.

It's hard to watch. Apart from the obvious reasons, I think it's this Astor's lack of Slayer powers. I'm used to her being able to easily outlift Olympic records, to punch holes in brick walls without batting an eye. To see her so frail and small, visibly struggling to keep up with Brian despite his obvious restraint, seems as profoundly wrong as anything else in this universe.

Thanks to her disturbing earlier statements, I'm now hyperaware of their every physical interaction, on alert for the slightest impropriety. But for all his care and concern, my brother might as well be a priest himself. I'm almost ashamed of my own thoughts.

I'm still mulling it over an hour later when Brian calls an end to the proceedings. She fumbles the stake when he tosses it back, barely managing to avoid dropping it on the floor, but he's not even looking. Her face is flushed with exertion and anger as she stalks out of the room.

"That went better than I was expecting." Brian pats the sweat from his own face and neck with a cream colored towel. "I was kind of surprised you didn't have any pointers."

"I didn't want to step on your toes," I say. Whenever possible, tell the truth.

"She's got a lot of problems." Brian offers a hesitant smile, with both dimples. "Not like us, but -- you know."

I don't know. And I'm scared to ask. 

"I know Angel saw her today." I let a shade of doubt creep into my voice. "How much contact does she have? With other people?"

"DCF signed off last month." Brian slings the towel around his neck and stretches, hands at the small of his back. "No more mandatory visits."

I want to ask about Cody. "What about school?"

"Home school. I got her started on a few things, but she's pretty self-directed." Slender fingers flex as Brian gently massages the center of his palm with his thumb. "Tutors twice a month, to make sure she's not missing anything crucial. And once in a while she likes to go see a movie."

He looks a little embarrassed as he shrugs and smiles.

"We lead a pretty boring life."

"And she's never --" I pause, trying to formulate my concerns in an appropriate manner. "Said anything? To anyone, about -- who you are? What you do?"

"Not as far as I know." Brian's chuckle is brief. The smile quickly disappears, leaving him looking like a college student on a week-long Adderall bender.

"I wish I could be a cucumber. More like you, Dex. But I can't help it." Brian swallows, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing in sympathy. "I get nervous."

I'm still thinking over those words as we troop back through the pool room. Crystal clear water shimmers as I walk past, inviting me to dive in and cool off my aching brain. I ignore it as we turn down the hall and head for the kitchen.

"I need to get cleaned up," Brian says. "So why don't you take out those steaks I got marinating, and see what looks good for sides?"

"Sure," I say.

Brian's relief is plain as he turns and disappears down the hall. Apparently he's having as much trouble as I am making small talk.

_"I thought he'd never leave."_

"Don't do that." I manage to keep my voice down. Still, my heart is pounding more than it ought to as I turn around.

"Where have you been?" It comes out sounding as worried as Harry looks. I hadn't realized how quickly I was starting to depend on his presence.

 _"Trying to leave."_ Harry's brow furrows in frustration. He's back in casual street clothes, wearing the same concerned look that seems to have taken up permanent residence on his ghostly features. _"Or teleport, or whatever. I can't do it."_

I don't like the sound of that.

"Are you saying you're stuck here?" I indicate our surroundings. "In this house?"

 _"Oh, no. I can leave any time I want."_ Harry looks slightly sheepish and defensive. _"It's how I got here."_

Another thought comes to mind. I probably shouldn't ask, but I can't resist.

"How can you walk on the floor?" I point at his partially translucent patent leather shoes. "Or the sidewalk, or the street? Without falling through?"

Harry appears momentarily bemused before giving me a rueful smile. _"You probably shouldn't make me think about it."_

"You're probably right," I admit.

 _"You should probably take those steaks out,"_ Harry suggests.

I let out a grim, sarcastic chuckle as I open the refrigerator and locate the plastic bag. "So when are you going to accept that magic is real?"

 _"So you say."_ Harry sounds dubious as ever. _"I hope you're not going down that rabbit hole."_

"We already are." I set the bag on a plate and place it on the rack overhanging the stove. "And I need more information than I'm getting."

I turn and stare at the ghost of my father.

"I need to know if I'm the bad guy."

  


* * *

  


By the grace of God and a great deal of ass busting, Vince has managed to bang out every necessary report before the end of his shift. That he was able to do it without visible error is enough to prove he actually is getting better at this. The important thing is that nobody should feel a sudden need to come barging in before he heads out, demanding that he abandon the rest of his evening for whatever crisis is brewing on their plate. Apart from the obvious satisfaction, it means his priorities come first.

Last year that would have meant a quick trip home, followed by a rousing and rowdy circuit of popular nightclubs, looking for ladies to love. Now it means he can sit down with a hot Reuben and work on his growing treasure trove of Crazy Shit. He still doesn't know what to call it. Only by the code name on both the manila paper folder in his bottom drawer, and its more sensitive digital counterpart that only exists on his personal laptop. A label consisting of a single letter.

 _V_.

The V-Files. For Vince, if anyone asks. And of course the obvious sex joke. But he's hoping more than anything that it stands for Victory.

If you'd asked him before all the Dexter drama went down, Vince would have agreed that a feeling of looming disaster was just the thing to make a man want to go out and seize the day. Get good and laid while the getting was still good, before imminent doom could bring about the end of all things fun. But amazingly, his former number two obsession remains the furthest thing from his sharpening mind. Between the diet tweaks and punishing workouts, barring the occasional bender with Angel, he's never been in better shape. He'd love nothing more than to walk into a bar with his newfound abs and confidence and see just far they can take him.

But he doesn't see any way he can ever go back to those days of innocence. You can't unsee, or unknow. All you can do is soldier on. Suck it up. Maybe go out fighting.

He just hopes that when the end comes it'll be quick. So fast he won't even see it coming. An instant of pain, and then nothing. Or maybe something. Who knows?

Vince takes a huge bite from his sandwich. Juices and dressing drip down his chin, reminding him that at least for now, there are still things that make life worth living.

As far as something worth dying for?

He hasn't yet found it.

  


* * *

  


_Original Universe_

"This is so fucked!"

Giles clears his throat. _"I beg your --"_

"Not you." Deb wrestles down another burgeoning swear. "But it so completely blows the planet that my pervert lab geek was on the money with his stupid theories."

For some reason, the notion of alternate dimensions sounds a lot less crazy when being put forth by an older man with an educated British accent. Deb has no problem admitting that the sexy voice doesn't hurt.

 _"Believe me, I sympathize."_ The dry and reassuring voice of the senior Watcher is colored by a significant weariness. _"At least my particular albatross can do reasonably good translation. Under supervision,"_ he hastens to add.

"Andrew, right?" Deb's doing her best to keep names straight, but Faith's crew is pretty extensive. "You said Dawn's keeping him occupied?"

 _"As most of our staff are otherwise engaged, they've taken point on research for Dana."_ Giles has the diplomatic air of a man well practiced in the art of euphemism.

 _"It's not been easy,"_ the Watcher continues. _"Dana herself is one of our most powerful and valued members. To have her pulled away from everything else, to focus on the disappearance of one man --"_

"Like I told her -- I understand you guys have a lot bigger things to deal with." Deb can hear the rustle of paper in the background. She has to admit it's a lot more soothing than the click of a keyboard.

 _"Well, I can say with some reasonable degree of confidence that -- unlike on numerous past occasions -- we are not currently in need of knowing the plural for apocalypse."_ A light British chuckle comes over the phone to soothe her troubled brow. _"So there is that."_

Deb sighs and cradles her forehead. Try as she might, she can't stop herself from remembering dark eyes and soft lips capturing her own. It's still the weirdest thing about talking to Dana, knowing the girl has access to every memory of every moment Deb shared with her fellow Slayer. She wants to ask Giles if he thinks there's a universe out there where Faith didn't pussy out on her. Didn't turn tail and run when the going got just a little bit tough. 

"I don't mean to take up all your time --"

 _"Nonsense."_ The Watcher's warm response brooks no argument. _"In light of your brother's obvious positive contribution to Astor's development? I think it's absolutely in our jurisdiction. I'm only sorry we can't justify giving it a higher priority."_

"I know all about that." Deb snorts. "And I appreciate anything and everything you can do."

 _"Now we do know of someone who has successfully traveled to another dimension and returned safely to this one."_ The Watcher's tone is decidedly disapproving. _"Unfortunately, it's our official policy to have nothing more to do with him."_

"Sounds drastic." Deb refrains from further comment, shifting on her feet. As restless as ever. If not more so.

 _"Unfortunately more than justified, given his poor choice of employer. And companions."_ A heavy sigh comes down the line. _"However, some of our number have chosen to disregard this prohibition --"_

"Let me guess." Deb can feel an involuntary grin spreading over her gloom-ridden expression. "Starts with an F."

 _"I see she's kept you well informed."_ A hint of amusement shines through the Watcher's weariness.

"Until recently." Deb doesn't dwell on it. "I know you'll keep me in the loop."

 _"Most likely, Dawn will be your liason from now on. Whenever Dana's out in the field."_ Giles has the air of someone gently wrapping things up. _"And of course Astor is more than welcome to visit the castle headquarters, at any time."_

"I'll let her know." Deb sighs, reluctant to let go of her latest lifeline. It makes her wonder if she'll ever meet this guy in person. How much he might remind her of Frank Lundy.

She clears her own throat, feeling a twinge of sadness along with the flood of happy memories. "Thanks, Giles."

 _"You're more than welcome."_ The Watcher's warmth is genuine, and unmistakable. _"Give Astor my regards."_

It does make her feel better. But the treadmill of doubt is always there, lurking in the shadows. Ready to sneak back beneath her feet. Go into overdrive when she least expects it.

Maybe she'll go to the range. Get some target practice in. Anything is better than sitting around waiting for the hammer to fall. Or the blade to drop, or whatever half-ass metaphor they're using these days. 

And next time she goes to a family dinner, Quinn has to be plus one. Even at the risk of giving him the wrong idea.

Besides, Cody likes him. Anything to give the kid another father figure. Even before Dexter vanished into thin air, it was painfully obvious how Astor's power and identity as a Slayer made his relationship with her far stronger than with her brother. It's not that he doesn't love Cody, or Harrison. At least as far as she can tell; as far as a man like her brother can understand love. But even as the boys grow and develop into individuals, with their own independent minds, they're never going to have the bond that Astor and Dexter share.

A perfect pair of killers.

  


* * *

  


"If I said to get me a bird." The woman's voice is dreamy and languid, the Cockney accent thick as London fog. The words drip like honey from her painted black lips, her glittering eyes full of some secret amusement. "What sort would you bring me?"

Her companion's expression is guarded as he contemplates this conundrum. His jaw is square and roughly stubbled, his shirt and pants dirty and disheveled, while his battered workboots bear the repeated stains of mud long dried. In contrast, his questioner wears her long black hair in a regal twist as she reclines on an antique velvet couch before him. Her cheeks are pale and powdered, her dress made of elaborate layers of lace and silk straight out of the Victorian era; dark as night, red as blood.

The room is dimly lit and shabbily furnished, the floor littered with newspapers, magazines and books all strewn about in haphazard fashion. A wall of cubbyholes on one side betrays the commercial origin of their surroundings, a long vacant industrial office now under more recent occupation. The pale moon through the window is a sliver of pearl, the far-off lights of downtown Miami a dim glow on the horizon.

"I suppose..." The man's reply is slow, reluctant in the extreme. "I'd have to ask what it was for."

"You are more clever than the last one." Despite the compliment, her tone is slightly reproving. "Why, just for fun. Of course," she adds, as if bemused at his naivete.

"No, I mean -- like for a pet? Or to eat?, or -- oh!" He snaps his fingers. "Or like for hunting? One of those ones you hold on your hand, and they have a hood --"

Her tone grows playful. "Just a bird."

A scowl distorts his grimy features before they return to a more worried expression. "Is there a wrong answer?"

The woman frowns. "Wrong for whom?"

"I mean --" The man looks over at the closed door on the opposite side of the room, as though measuring the distance. "An answer that will get me hurt or killed?"

"Oh, silly."

He remains perfectly still. Razor-tipped fingers reach out to caress his brow, softer than silk.

"I would never do you harm for speaking true." Her smile bears not the slightest hint of cruelty. "Not today."

His internal struggle is readily apparent on his face. But the temptation is too strong.

"What's today?"

She gazes sadly up at him. "The end."

His eyes widen as he stands up straighter. What he doesn't do is take a step back. Or turn and run for the door.

"Not the end of all things." Her voice holds a note of melancholy that seems foreign to him, judging by his expression. "Just our thing."

He clearly doesn't like the sound of that. Still he resists the obvious urge to break and run.

"I should have kept a journal." The idle musing in her voice turns to a wicked undertone of confiding a secret. She sits up, neatly arranging her voluminous skirts. "Of course, it's hard to know where to begin."

He turns slightly, cocking his head at the distant sound. A pair of footsteps, one heavier than the other.

"You're but the latest." She sounds wistful as she regards him. "A long line of good and faithful servants. But you'll have to be much more clever now."

The footsteps pause outside the door.

"If you want to survive."

The knob turns.

The door opens.

"You little _bitch_."

The newcomer striding in is also female, the silent other trailing behind her likewise male. The woman's hair is a dirty blonde, tied behind her head in a single braid, while her slender build is readily apparent under a black leather jacket and curve-hugging denim jeans. In contrast, her companion is a mountain of solid flesh and bone whose calves look to be bigger than her neck. His hair is close-cropped and freshly shorn, his tailor-made clothes hanging slightly loose on his massive frame, easily allowing any sudden moves he might be inclined to make.

The raven-haired woman inclines her head a fraction. "Lightbringer."

"What did I tell you the last time?" The blonde doesn't break stride as she stalks up to the couch. She stands with her hands on her hips, glaring down at its occupant. "That it was the last time."

"Why ask when you know the answer?" The target's Cockney drawl conveys a plain and simple boredom with the proceedings. The expression on her face as she glances over at the blonde's companion is more of interest than intimidation.

"I hate you." The blonde laughs as she says it. She shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. Like she's asking the Almighty himself if he can believe the shit his creation is trying to pull.

Her target's placid gaze remains untouched. "I know."

"That's right." The pretty face contorts and distorts as the blonde continues to vent her growing anger. "I hate everything about you. Your bullshit goth aesthetic, your incredibly poor taste in fledglings, your _tee hee totes random quirkiness_ \--" She spits this last out, fingers waggling in the air to accompany the words. "-- that keeps almost completely _fucking_ us!"

Her target regards her, looking almost sad.

"You hate that she loves me."

The blonde's mouth falls open. For a moment she looks utterly confounded, unable to formulate a cogent response. Then a cruel smile slowly spreads her mouth wide. She throws back her head and laughs, again, without the slightest bit of joy or pleasure.

"And she always will." The blonde stares down at her nemesis. Without looking away, she raises her voice. "Hold him."

A massive hand grabs his collar as he turns to run, bringing him to a choking, flailing halt. Arms like tree trunks wrap tight around his torso, the weight of the other man forcing him down.

"No." The blonde's command rings out as his face grinds into the floor. "I want him to see this."

"Will you have him speak of what he saw?" His mistress is slowly standing. Her dress of crimson and midnight falls about her in a thousand diaphanous veils, her eyes full of unspoken sympathy as she gazes down at him.

"I'll make sure he gets his story straight. And for you?" The blonde reaches into her jacket, pulling out a smooth and rounded piece of wood whittled to a deadly point. "I'll make it quick."

Ebony painted lips draw upward in a coquettish pout. "No last meal?"

A sarcastic snort. The blonde's eyes narrow, before her lip curls.

"I should have known you'd see this coming." The blonde shakes her head in wonderment. "Before I did."

"Don't be modest." For the first time, scorn drips from the dark-haired woman's lips. "You've wanted to ever since we met."

The blonde's face grows hard with determination as she raises her stake. "Damn right."

The dark-haired woman straightens fully, gathering her dignity even as the blonde's face darkens. Her finger extends, pointing off in the distance.

"Then hear my final words --"

"A blue parakeet!" It spills out of his mouth in a babbling rush. "If you just said, get me a bird -- nothing else -- I'd get you a blue parakeet."

His mistress pauses, gazing at nothing. Then she smiles.

"A good answer." Her voice is warm as she stoops to pat him on the head. "Thou good and faithful servant."

The blonde stands with her stake upraised, wearing a look of distaste and impatience. "Are we done?"

"Your white knight will not save you." The former smile is gone, a chilling stare etched on those cold marble features. The dark princess slowly stands, finger once more extended, as she grimly pronounces sentence upon them. "You will never know the joy of drinking your daughter. And the littlest killer of men -- she shall be the Slayer --"

"Shut up." The blonde swallows as she steps forward. The point of the stake comes to rest, dimpling the fabric over a modestly covered bosom.

"Who will cover the earth." An unrestrained smile once more splits the face of her victim. Despite imminent peril, she seems positively radiant. Transcendent, even. "Be fruitful, and multiply. Like bunnies --"

Her words come to a stop, in a wordless cry. For a moment her eyes are wide with pain. Surprise, for all that she seems to have seen it coming. And a pure and blessed relief. A happiness so profound as to make her weep.

An end to all her torment.

"Than--"

Her face blackens and crumbles. Followed by the rest of her body; from flawless beauty to frozen simulacrum in the span of a heart's beat, before falling away in a swirl of dust. It disappears into the shadows without a trace.

A splinter presses beneath his chin. Digging into the flesh, just hard enough to sting; enough to make him lift his head without hesitation.

"I hear you're a smart boy."

Luminous eyes stare down, a glint of red burning deep within.

"Let's see how long it takes to learn your lines."


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn takes care of Cody so Lumen can catch an unbreath. Dexter makes dinner. Angel flirts and has fun. Astor is visited by a disturbing vision. We finally ditch those damn epithets for some proper names. A first meeting doesn't go well. A plan is made for the following day. And someone else has his own first encounter with the supernatural.
> 
> Warning: Brief character contemplation of suicide. If anyone reading this is feeling the same, please talk to someone. I've been there myself, and very recently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My little gift to all you crazy people out there reading my pulp and tripe. Merry Christmas, and thank you, with all my heart.
> 
> * * *

_Original Universe_

Joey Quinn is no stranger to the Morgan household. He's been here before, through good times and bad, in both a personal and professional capacity. And it hasn't been that long since he last saw Cody. But judging from the death grip the kid has on Quinn's knees, Dexter's disappearing act has been devastating. The boy's clearly jonesing for some positive male influence.

"Where's your buddy?" Quinn asks. "Nathan?"

"He's camping up north," Cody says. "He'll be back Friday."

"I really appreciate you doing this." Lumen appears only slightly more frazzled than usual. Her blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail and covered in a red kerchief, the knees of her blue jeans covered in dust. "I just need a couple hours."

Cody's wearing a guilty air as he looks up at her. "I was trying to help."

"I know." Lumen gives him an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder. Quinn almost doesn't see the flinch in the boy's expression, the nearly invisible flicker of anxiety on his face.

"You sure six is late enough?" Quinn shrugs, offering patented thousand-watt charm with his disarming smile.

"Oh, I'll be done cleaning in ten minutes." Lumen scowls, raising a hand as if to ruffle someone's hair. "Once this little monkey's out from under my feet."

"Cut it out!" But Cody's laughing in between shrieking and beating a hasty retreat.

"Have a good time!" Lumen calls after him, before turning to Quinn with a weary grin. "Seriously -- you're a lifesaver."

" _De nada_." Joey doesn't mention the fact that technically, Lumen isn't really alive. It only makes him think of grainy nighttime camera footage; her and Dexter, loading black plastic bags onto a boat. Or the memory of pulling up one night out front of this very same house. Fully expecting another bloodbath, only to stumble into the biggest clusterfuck in the history of police work that he has direct and personal experience with.

"Believe it. As soon as that tub is full?" Lumen raises her thermos mug in a farewell salute. "It's _Calgon, take me away._ "

Joey tries not to dwell on it. Focuses on being responsible for a smart and inquisitive youngster who's clearly still trying to process the loss of his mother. He can't help thinking it sounds like a wacky new sitcom: _My Stepmom Is a Vampire_ , or some shit. He also thinks it takes some majorly cold stones to relax and chill in a tub you know your predecessor was murdered in, while drinking from a thermos full of blood. Even from sheep.

He can't not wonder if Lumen imagines the scene at the time: A woman asleep, or seeming so, in still waters made of red. He wonders if it makes her hungry. Or --

Quinn gives his head a violent shake. Cody looks up from adjusting his seatbelt.

"Are you okay?"

"Bug flew in my ear." Quinn turns over the engine and checks all around. He pulls away from the curb, in a more sedate than usual fashion. "You still want to go to the park?"

"Yes, please." Cody's big pleading eyes are balanced out by the utterly serious expression on his face. "They have dinosaur rockets."

  


* * *

  


Brian's freezer is packed full of assorted protein, all of it vacuum sealed and perfectly stacked. The pantry consists mainly of canned fish. I manage to find some fresh produce in the form of potatoes and green beans. Canned mushrooms aren't my favorite, but a good cream sauce will do wonders in covering their imperfections.

"It's fine if you don't want to spy on Astor." I slice off thick wedges of butter, dropping them into a copper-bottomed saucepan. "I just want you to chaperone."

 _"How is that fair?"_ Harry's frustration is clear. _"She doesn't think I'm real."_

"And this doesn't make you want to rethink your position in any way?" I give the antique brass grinder a twist, watching peppercorn dust drifting down into a sea of melting fat.

 _"I just don't see it, Dex."_ The stubborn set of Harry's jaw resolves into what qualifies as actual opacity. _"Not without actual evidence."_

I slowly pour with my left hand as I whisk in the milk with my right. "And you don't consider yourself to be evidence of magic."

 _"I'm still a Catholic."_ Harry sounds embarrassed, almost apologetic. _"You can't teach a dead dog new tricks."_

I stifle a cough. I'm not sure if it qualifies as a genuine laugh.

"Well -- the two of you will be out in public." I open the oven to find my parboiled skinny fries are crisping up nicely. As for the green beans, a bit of bouillion and wine serves as a base, with a pinch of rosemary to round things out.

"So all you have to do --" I think the broiler looks ready. Assuming Brian isn't too much longer. "Is go with her, to a public business. And report back."

Harry looks more skeptical than ever. _"You really think she'll go along with this."_

I'm not optimistic. "One problem at a time."

"Still talking to yourself?"

Astor's interjection is a subdued mutter rather than outright mockery as she stalks past me toward the table. Harry rises hastily from the chair, stepping aside as she deposits herself in it.

"Since I can't leave the house?" I turn down the burners and make sure the lids are all in place. "I was hoping you could run an errand for me."

"You want me to see a fortune teller?" Astor stares out the window, her chin resting atop both fists. Her body quivers slightly, in a seeming effort to restrain herself from rocking back and forth. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight and unforgiving ponytail, her loose-fitting clothes a uniformly dull and unmemorable khaki that resembles my old kill outfit.

"Just go and ask her a few questions." I've located a hand grater in a drawer with the spare knives. Given the presence of fresh nutmeg, there had to be one somewhere. "That's all."

"Oh, sure." Astor's disdain returns full force, her unwilling gaze sliding back my way. "She's totally going to work for free." 

"Then tell me what she does say." I nod at the space beside her chair. "And whether or not she can see Harry."

Astor's lip curls in a sneer. "More like Harvey." 

"You mean the bunny?" I think a moment. "I remember that being less painful than the Pink Panther."

Astor glares at me. She looks ready to leap from her chair.

"Quit it." The corner of her eye twitches as she lays her palms flat on the table. "Quit acting normal."

I'm only half confused. "I --"

"Like a normal person!" She's holding back from yelling. Her voice low and venomous, her breath raspy and deep in her throat, seemingly clogged with sheer rage. "Like you have fucking _feelings!_ "

I stare back at her. I don't know how well it shows, but I'm honestly shocked. In fact, the more I think on it, the more I can feel a tiny kernel of rebellion deep within. Building slowly toward something more.

It feels like anger.

I turn back to the stove and to my dishes, running fully on automatic. Stunned like a bantamweight, caught by a glancing blow from someone twice my size.

I hear Astor's breathing falter before resuming a steady rhythm. From the sound of it, she's trained to do this. A deliberate calming routine approaching meditation.

I could use one of those myself. One that doesn't involve blood. Instead I busy myself with the minutiae of the evening meal. Astor continues to breathe.

It's how Brian finds us a few minutes later, as I'm setting the fries under a heat lamp. His eyes are unnaturally bright in those dark and sunken hollows, like I'm seeing the skull beneath the pale skin. But his face is ruddy with scrubbing, pink and healthy in the copious natural midday light streaming through the windows. Another reminder to keep my eyes peeled for actual vampires.

"Wow." Brian takes a long and appreciative inhale, gazing over the array of dishes on display. "I guess you know how to keep busy."

I nod at the waiting steaks and step away from the stove. Astor ignores me as I sit down across from her. Harry stands next to my chair, his wary gaze flicking back and forth among the living. I'm hoping my wacky ghost dad won't be too much of a distraction. I have enough problems trying to act normal.

Astor's looking at me again. Her troubled frown is more uncertain, of what I couldn't say. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think she was concerned.

 _"Dex."_ Harry glances down.

My eyes follow his, to my hand wrapped in a death grip around the curve of a steel dinner fork. Tendons bulging in my wrist and forearm, my knuckles uniformly drained of blood.

"Less than ten minutes." Brian announces this with apparent relish, closing the door to the side oven.

I ignore the lump in my throat. The sour taste of bile trying to rise, as I try to ease the cramping pressure. The rational part of me knows all these are merely the product of my unthinking lizard brain. And I don't need to focus on breathing.

I allow my fingers to uncurl. Ignore Astor's attention, focused directly on me.

"This looks wonderful." Brian's finished spooning everything up. He bears our plates to the table with the grace of a seasoned head waiter, eyes twinkling with merriment. "Since when did you go all Iron Chef?"

"You make me sound like some grunting primitive." I try to mask my irritation as I reach for the pepper grinder. I believe my success leaves something to be desired.

"Sorry." Brian sends a look at Astor. "Would you like to thank Dexter? For helping with dinner?"

Astor raises an eyebrow and stares at him, raising a spoonful to her mouth. I can see the obvious appreciation before it even hits her taste buds; in the flare of her nostrils, in how hard she works to avoid betraying her own enjoyment.

"Suppose he didn't poison it." Astor's grudging, mumbled admission is joined by a sideways glare in my direction. More of a glance. 

"Coming from her?" Brian chuckles and rises from his chair. "That's high praise."

Despite having the exhaust fans going, the scent of rarely done beef is beginning to fill the room. It only grows stronger as Brian opens the door to the broiler, using wooden tongs to flip each steaming slab in turn.

I'm still thinking of the most diplomatic way to gather information. I have enough experience with the newfound world of emotion to realize that anything I say will be viewed by Astor in the worst possible light. Luckily Brian is on the case when it comes to filling our considerable gaps in the conversation. He chatters on about this and that; purely inconsequentialities as he pulls our steaks out to rest, Astor and I continuing to eyeball one another from across the table.

"I know you wanted chicken." Brian deposits our respective main courses before us like a magician unveiling a rabbit. "We can do that tomorrow."

Astor gives a mistrustful frown, reaching out a tentative finger to prod his offering. "Is it done?"

"She likes it a bit less pink." Brian doesn't sound mean-spirited, like he's making a joke at Astor's expense. Nevertheless I can sense the brief pulse of tension, her resentment at his seeming dismissal of her concerns.

Astor picks up her knife, slicing straight through the middle and peering inside. A frown crosses her face. "Uh-uh."

Brian's resignation is clear. "Okay."

The long standing procedure in these cases turns out to be for them to cut the outside edge off each steak for Astor while giving Brian the less done center portions. Astor makes a face when I offer up my own, until I point out that I haven't even touched it with my fork.

 _"That girl's starving."_ Harry shakes his head as he watches. _"What's wrong with her?"_

I can see his point. For all its precision, what Astor is doing absolutely qualifies as scarfing. Her knife and fork flash to and fro as she travels down the length of each strip and carving off neat little bites, thoroughly chewing each one as she moves on to the next. I can hear her humming as she dips a chunk into her cream sauce.

"Don't forget to rinse up." Brian turns to me with an expectant look. "So how was your day?"

"Uneventful." I strive for something safe to fill the void. "Which is good."

"True." Brian nods. A hum escapes him as he tries his first bite. "Is that nutmeg?"

I can see Astor's going to be finished long before we are. She may not fight like a Slayer, but she definitely eats like one. Then again, teenage hormones can do some pretty crazy things.

I settle for biting at least half a bullet.

"So are you looking at anyone else yet?" I direct this more to Brian, with a brief look over at Astor. "Someone who fits the Code?"

I'm gambling on a few assumptions that seem relatively safe, both in terms of being likely true, and not putting me at great risk if untrue. Mostly they revolve around how much Brian has brought her into the loop regarding the ins and outs of his process. For better -- and for worse -- I'm willing to bet that Astor is all in. That she's taken at least one life with her own small hands.

"A couple." Brian responds relatively smoothly, with little hesitation. I see a quick glance in Astor's direction before his attention returns to me.

"You know it wouldn't be safe," he says. "To let you help."

The need to know is worth pushing a few boundaries. I'm still stumbling around in the dark. Even knocking something over, or tearing through, should result in a bit more light.

"If I can't leave the house?" I raise one eyebrow, offer a questioning frown of my own. "I'm not just dead."

"I told you." Astor delivers this flatly while polishing off the last of her creamed vegetables. "You're a killer."

"Did you do any surfing?" Brian's demeanor is taking a darker turn. "I figured the first thing you'd do was Google yourself."

I shake my head and focus on producing a stack of perfect crimson slices. Juice runs rampant, mixing with cream sauce. Already their separate territories have irrevocably combined, forever altering the course of my plate's landscape.

"I'll give you the Cliff's Notes." Brian nods at my miniature mountain of evenly divided portions. "But you should finish up first." 

I almost couldn't ask for a better steak. It's the only positive thing going on as I try to ignore the grim foreboding in Harry's dark and burning eyes.

Astor is done in moments. She rinses her dishes at the sink and loads up the dishwasher, then turns and heads for the patio door.

"Don't go far." Brian's mild admonition seems more reflex than anything. Astor ignores him, closing the door behind her with an unusually gentle touch.

"Where's Cody?" I can't remain cautious forever. And I miss the little guy, even more than I would have thought possible. "Please don't tell me --"

"Foster care." For the first time, Brian looks grim. He's working on his last few bites, further slicing each rectangle along the diagonal. "I wish I could have taken him. But it was hard enough keeping Astor out of the system."

"But they see each other." I can't imagine otherwise. "They visit."

"No contact order." Brian shakes his head, solemn as a vicar's funeral. "DCF doesn't think it's good for either of them."

For the first time, I can't believe what I'm hearing. "What about you?"

"What can I say?" Brian's smile is tight and small. "It's really for the best."

  


* * *

  


"So tell me more about yourself," Angel says with a smile. "At least for the first five minutes."

"You can keep your illusions." The social worker -- Catherine Willoughby, according to the badge on her lanyard -- raises the glass to her lips, knocking back a second shot of single malt. "I've sworn off men."

"Oh, me too." Angel's already recomputing his evening. While the promise of sexy times may have flown, that doesn't completely rule out the notion of fun to be had. If anything, it takes some of the pressure off. They can just sit here at the bar having a good time. Getting to know each other.

"I know, right? S'what I always said." Her accent is stronger, a mellow burr tempered by the liberal application of spirits. "Not so funny when you don't have a choice."

She sounds gloomy about this. Almost guilty. That doesn't really lift Angel's own spirits. It wasn't as though he'd been betting the farm on an evening of _la pasiòn_. But he knows from experience that being trusted to share a woman's emotions can be an enormous weight upon a man's soul.

"I won't ask." Angel shows his empty hands, raising the bottle with an expectant look. "One more?"

" _Whoo_ \-- give us a few, eh?" Catherine shakes her head, looking like she regrets having done so. "Forget I'm such a lightweight now."

"Oh, take your time." Angel slides over her untouched glass of ice water in a subtle motion of encouragement. "I'm just happy to drink with a woman again, you know? It's been a while."

"Yeah?" She looks genuinely curious, settling back in her seat to get comfortable. "There a story behind that?"

"You probably heard it." Angel shrugs his burly shoulders, once more cursing the lack of a decent hat. Now would be the perfect time to remove it.

"Girl I used to work with," he continues. "Good cop, real nice. Everybody liked her. Except the bosses."

Catherine matches his grin. "Sounds like my type."

"Oh, you'd have loved her." Angel sips his water, sucking on a slice of lime. "Few more years, she probably woulda swung your way."

Catherine looks to be putting two and two together. She raises a toast with a serious mien and respectful nod.

"To the fair lady Morgana, then." Catherine tips an eyebrow as their glasses clink. "Sorry to have missed her."

Angel's impressed. So much so that he swears to himself right then and there to always remember this moment. For all her tough demeanor, this woman is nothing but lovely soft curvature, gentle brown eyes he'd love to go swimming in. She reminds him of the girls down at the health food store, dressed in long flowing skirts that sway and add mystery. Except he can picture this one punching out at the end of her shift and throwing on full black leather; hopping onto a Harley, making the open road her bitch.

"Absolutely." He throws back the last dregs of his liquor. "And to the next generation."

He doesn't remember much of their conversation after that. Mostly because he's already pretty evenly toasted. And her breasts are quite stupendous, and therefore very distracting. As is the rest of her, right down to the cynical smile and sexy accent that makes him picture her shattering a glass pitcher over some fool in a pub, grown too bold for his own good.

And because once the conversation turns to Astor, it's hard to keep quiet. No surprise it all comes spilling out now. For quite a while Angel's had no one with whom to share this particular burden; been hesitant to belabor Vince with the obvious. But this woman makes him feel like she genuinely cares. After the tumultuous events of the past year, seeing everything and everyone he ever cared for dragged through the muck, nailed up on full and bloody display for a gawking crowd, this simple act of kindness feels like it's worth his weight in diamonds. 

So he's not sure of all the twists and turns that were taken during their wide-ranging talk. But it all started with the Bay Harbor Butcher. And he remembers how it ended. They'd shared a plate of nachos and a blooming onion, drawing out the discussion as the sun moved overhead, sank toward the ocean and disappeared. And finally Catherine had regretfully informed him she had to leave sooner than she'd like: _Now it's me who's got someplace to be._

Of course Angel had been every inch the consummate gentleman; walked her to the curb and hailed a cab, watching for ruffians who might prey on a lone woman after dark. He'd thought about following her, before thinking that was just cop reflex. He wouldn't have even remembered her last name from the badge if it weren't so simple. Sounds like willow bee.

Easy enough to check out. Hard for him to fathom what kind of game she might be trying to run. But if Angel's learned anything in life that didn't come from his old man, it's the old quote from Ronnie Raygun. _Trust -- but verify._ Just to be sure.

He can't afford any more mistakes.

  


* * *

  


The early evening sun floats over the lake, reflecting orange streaks along the water. It hurts to look at, and Astor returns her gaze to the path before her, carved between the trees by her repeated passage.

She's having a harder time than usual today. Keeping calm, staying focused. Not bad enough that damn Dexter keeps worming his way into her thoughts at every turn. Now every time she thinks about the dead coming back to life, it only serves to remind her of all the people she and Brian have put down. A vague vision of an army of zombies makes her stop in her tracks, shake her head with a shudder before forcing herself back into a stutter of forward motion.

Her clearing is around the next bend, coming into view. Naturally formed by its surroundings, blocked from any view of the house by a canopy of trees, it's the last spot of solid ground before swamp takes over. Anyone who doesn't know how close the edge is would probably take one step and be up to their knees in mud before they knew what was happening. Astor can run right through the clearing at top speed, be past the danger zone and beyond the fence to the pump station building without ever looking down, not a speck of mud on her shoes.

It's one of the few physical endeavors she feels genuinely good at. Makes this spot feel more like her own private domain. With a protective moat. She keeps wanting to do something more with the place. Some kind of decoration, however small. But it's enough just to have this hideaway.

Except now her sanctuary is threatened. All thanks to this ridiculous notion of a ghost, or whatever crap some adult is doing in order to fuck with her.

And it's gotten under her skin so bad, she's apparently taken up whittling in her spare time. A number of her work are stuck in the ground next to one of the trees, the stakes ranging in diameter from pencil to bratwurst, the latest one she's pulling from her back pocket even bigger still. She has no idea why it feels so right in her hand. Even better than the knife Brian gave her, custom crafted to be just her size.

She holds her homemade weapon loose and ready, glancing side to side. High above a bird flutters from a tree, disappearing in the darkening sky before she can fully catch a glimpse.

The sun should be setting in about twenty minutes. She checked the almanac online, just to be sure.

Astor still has no idea what she's waiting for. Maybe a test of courage, where she has to stay outside all night. Until Brian comes wandering back here with that worried apologetic look, politely asking her to come back inside. Like it's only a suggestion.

She kneels and slams the stake into the earth, right beside the rest. A row of unfinished crosses, signifying death.

Everything sucks. Every last drop of hope or joy or goodness has been drained right out of her, leaving a frail and dried-up husk. Old before her time, open to any passing vile act or notion. Nothing remaining but hate. For the way she looks in the mirror, with or without clothes; for the unquenchable need for blood that feels like it will never be satisfied. And all the castles in the world won't make up for what's been lost. 

Her breath catches, her heart contracting painfully before resuming a lurching beat. Astor stares at nothing. At the vastness of her own realization, of how much she just wants it all to end. Big enough that she quails from the thought.

She's not brave enough. A million ways you can die. And she's too much of a baby to even --

_"Astor?"_

_No._

The strange buzzing in her ears reaches down the length of her body, into her suddenly weakening knees. Astor can feel herself turning; rising and standing on shaky legs and seeming ground, even as the chorus deep inside continues to scream in silent protest. Because that voice would be even more impossible than Dexter.

Would mean all her dreams and nightmares have come true.

 _"Baby, no --"_ Rita's face flickers, contorting in misery. Astor stumbles through the image of her mother, arms swinging wildly, barely regaining her footing before wheeling about. Her mouth and eyes are open wide in shock and outrage, her breathing increasingly erratic.

 _"It's okay, baby."_ The ghostly image raises her hands, voice low and soothing. _"I know it doesn't seem like it. But you have to --"_

"No." Astor manages that much. She stumbles backward, shaking her head, nearly falling before catching herself on the tree. It hurts like she's being scorched by the sun; by the pure ideal beauty of the partially translucent figure that shines like an angel. Except there's no great and glorious pair of wings, no flaming sword or halo. Just a pair of loose white drawstring pants, with a matching thin kind of buttoning sweater that looks like something Grandma would have worn. And a pair of bare feet that seem to rest above the actual surface of the mossy ground, without ever quite sinking in.

"No," she repeats. But she can't bring herself to close her eyes. 

_"Please -- just breathe. For both of us."_ Rita's concern transforms into a wry grimace. _"Since I, you know -- can't."_

"This is --" Astor falls silent. The gears in her head are threatening to spin right off their tracks, smash against each other and go flying every which way in a million pieces. Too many thoughts. Too much.

 _"I don't know how long I have."_ The apparition's hands twist together, in clear and nervous tension. _"And this might be the only chance I get. So you need to -- Astor!"_

Her hand is clamped over her mouth, holding back the tears. But that's the voice she remembers. The sound of all wisdom and authority.

Has her mother been watching? All this time, while --

 _"I know it seems like all you have are questions."_ The vision kneels before Astor, its tormenting presence mere inches away. _"But the answers are out there."_

The words threaten to come spewing forth. Like the foulest muck, dredged up from the swamp of her innards: _Who do I trust?_ But she doesn't know what she'll do if the answer is anything other than Brian.

 _"And so am I."_ And now it's hope that shines, bright and glorious. _"You have to find me."_

Blood thunders through her brain, pounding in her ears. "How --"

 _"I'm not the same."_ A glint of grief within, both hard and cruel. _"I might not remember you."_

Her eyes keep trying to squinch and slam shut. It's like every time they used to take her picture at school and worse. Tears are squeezing out, over the lower lids of her eyes, down her cheeks in streaky trails. Her mouth hangs open, hands limp and helpless at her sides as she collapses to the ground.

_"But you have to find me."_

Rita stands tall and proud, already growing fainter in the dying light of day.

_"We can help each other."_

"Don't --" Astor nearly bites off the tip of her tongue. Her right hand scrabbles in the dirt, coming to rest on the biggest stake she carved only a few hours ago.

Her pounding heart lurches and skips, as a miracle fades into nothing.

She's still gripping the stake, watching the sun vanish over the horizon. It feels like there's a scream locked behind her teeth, poised to surge beyond all known limits.

Astor continues to breathe.

It could be worse. This could have happened yesterday. Or a few days ago. Or any time before she would have done anything but laugh at the idea that --

"What?" Her voice sounds odd. A broken parody of itself, like a bad home recording pre-digital age. "What do you _know?_ "

She falls silent, taking in the mental image. Something far more vast even than her loathing for herself. An exponentially larger mountain, of all the unknowns of every shape and size in her newly expanded world.

It's quite the way to suddenly realize you don't know shit. And the only person who does, is --

The feeble protest inside rings hollow. Because deep down, it's obvious. At least that much.

She still has more to learn from Dexter.

Before he dies.

Before they cut off his fucking head.

  


* * *

  


"I'm thinking of redecorating."

The speaker is a trim and spritely blonde, clad in a slinky red dress and strapless black heels. Her angelic features and formal attire, the subtle but immaculate makeup accentuating her already stunning beauty, seem wholly at odds with the filthy industrial environment. In contrast, the figure at her side appears perfectly at home in their dismal surroundings. The shorter woman wears a bulky jacket, that to the trained eye reveals the body armor underneath; black jeans cut just so, allowing full freedom of movement from splits to overhead kicks. Her well-worn steel toed boots are sporting more than a few old stains on display, clearly the product of involuntarily contributed bodily fluids. Her short black hair is spiked but not aggressively so, her appearance charming even without an open smile on her elfin features.

"Mounting heads on pikes?" The second looks thoughtful as she swings the door shut behind them, throwing home a massive set of bolts with practised ease. A metal ramp below them extends across a pit of black before meeting another door on the far wall. The ceiling above is likewise invisible, the entire room a circular chamber. Its dull inner wall bears remnants of paint from decades past, with a ring of dim and flickering lights inside protective wire cages.

"Sadly, no." The blonde clucks her tongue. A grimace of distaste warps her pretty face as she delicately steps over a streak of something smeared on the walkway. "Not that it would make that much difference around here."

"Sorry." The second kicks at the offending bit of flesh. It takes a moment before she works it free, scraping residue from her boot as she watches it disappear into the void. From underneath a savage chorus rises, a rousing accompaniment of snaps and snarls amplified by the smooth surface of the circular metal walls.

"Someone sounds cranky." The blonde shakes her head. "Of course you knew this would happen."

"I can feed them." The second shrugs. "It's no big deal."

"No -- they're her responsibility. And far more trouble than they're worth." The blonde heaves a sigh and rolls her eyes. "But don't you ever tell her I said it."

A sarcastic exhalation is the second's only response. She remains close by her mistress as they begin traversing the length of the walkway. The sound of their respective footwear echoes in the vast and empty space: The dull clang of thick heavy soles, the daintier tap of _haute couture_.

"And by all the unholy saints -- do _not_ go around talking about things like heads on pikes." Another grimace from the blonde. "The last thing you want is to give her ideas."

"You got it."

A crunch and howl from below punctuate the continuing, guttural soundtrack drifting up from the depths of the pit.

"Not that I object in principle, you understand. I mean certainly, it does tend to draw unwelcome attention. But as a morale booster?" The blonde smiles, another cluck of her tongue joining the click of heels on metal. "The classics are awfully hard to beat."

The second is almost smiling as she steps ahead of her mistress. The blonde steps through the door being held open for her, peering around.

"Dru?" The call resounds through the network of hallways; abandoned offices, once productive machinery gone into a permanent state of dormancy.

"Honey? I've found the most wonderful little surprise for you. And no, it's not like the last one --" She frowns, surveying an empty room. "Dru?"

The drip of water greets her in return, along with the faint squeak and shuffle of rodents.

"Where is he?" It's a simple question, though fraught with suspicion. But those soft hazel eyes are hardening fast as the blonde turns, her glare demanding answers. The second is already on the move, scanning the demolished area; kneeling to squint at the floor, running a delicate finger over the roughly stippled concrete.

A violent shake of the blonde's head sets her Shirley Temple curls bouncing, the flesh of her face a momentary blur. Ugly fangs protrude over her lower lip as she opens her nostrils, pulling in deep inhalations of stagnant air. The ridges of her forehead crinkle in deep thought.

"Nothing," she announces, after a moment. "You?"

"Nothing new." The second rises, dusting off her hands. Her expression is equally serious, her own features now similarly distorted like molten wax in a bestial grimace.

"Find him."

The order is given without hesitation, obeyed with equal speed. Her second disappears down the hallway as the blonde strides over to a table, rifling through a stack of papers.

Her lip twists in a delicate curl of annoyance even as the animal snarl disappears, the planes of her face returning to their previous unthreatening state of normality. The long standing suffering of untold years is reflected in her gaze as she stares about the room in growing irritation.

A clang of metal resounds behind the closed door. The blonde turns and watches it creaking open, revealing two figures of a very different size and shape.

"Oh, good." Another blonde woman enters, brushing cobwebs from her ponytail and leather jacket. "You finally decided to join us. Maybe she might decide to quit being crazy for five minutes. Or is that too much to --"

She pauses, taking in the sight of the room. Of its sole other occupant in her fine red dress and elegant heels, standing with both arms folded over her chest as she regards the newcomers.

"Where have you been?"

"Very funny. Where do you think?" The blonde in leather lifts an arrogant chin without turning, indicating her larger male companion. "Getting _her_ dinner."

The first woman's skepticism is apparent before she replies. "So where is it?"

"There is none. Just like I said." A tone of warning, that borders on combative. "This feeding hole's gone dry. Unless you want to declare open season on soccer moms --"

"And maybe if you were willing to eat a woman once in a blue moon, you wouldn't have decimated the local frat boys and investment firms." The retort is quick, without a hint of retreat. "We can't afford to be picky."

"Like you're too good for what I bring to the table." A sneer accompanies this pointed remark. "Never seen you pass up a meal."

"And what good is your man mountain there," the blonde in the dress continues, "if he can't --"

"The cops are focusing on night duty." This statement comes from the man as he steps forward into the dim light. He stands like a soldier at ease, his spine straight as an arrow, his hands behind his back. "Last few weeks, they've been going heavy on third shift."

A light scoff from the first woman greets his assessment. "You sound unusually cautious."

"They've got eyes all over the city. Human and camera." The man towers over both of them, meeting her piercing gaze with frank and open submission. "Not to mention every moron with a smartphone."

"You're out of line, Cole." The blonde in leather turns and levels a stare at her clearly kept man. "I don't think Darla wants to hear your opinion. Any more than I do."

"Maybe not." Cole -- a crudely handsome brute, inside his slightly baggy pair of dress pants and matching suit coat -- appears resigned to whatever fate his bosses might be inclined to dish out. "I still say we should be going for the homeless."

"I'd rather live on rats." Darla's shudder leaves no doubt regarding her level of commitment on the subject. "After all, Dru is right about some things. We have to have --"

A shuffling scuffle from the hallway causes her to break off. Then a flailing figure flies from the shadows, landing at their feet in a crumpled heap.

Darla's eyebrow rises in an arc of pure menace. "Standards."

"Lumen?" The beaten and bedraggled lump raises its head, struggling to its knees, resolving into a man. His lips are split and bleeding, teeth stained red as he stares up at the blonde in leather. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

"What the fuck." Lumen -- who at the moment in dress and hairstyle, bears a strong resemblance to early Lara Croft -- makes this flat pronouncement without a flicker of outward emotion. She leans forward, squinting at him like a sideshow curiosity.

"Found him in the library." This comes from the dark-haired woman striding out of the dark. She ignores Cole completely, eyeing her leather-wearing blonde counterpart with obvious mistrust.

"Rachel." Lumen inclines her head a fraction of a degree. "Good to see you earning your keep."

"Boyd? Honey?" Darla's soothing tone can't conceal the undercurrent of doom, both impending and imminent. The slit in her dress widens as she kneels, exposing heretofore unseen lengths of exquisite leg. "Where's Dru?"

"Jesus." Cole wrinkles his nose, the mutter becoming a disgusted scowl. "Like he wasn't bad enough already --"

Darla raises a finger. Cole falls immediately silent.

"Boyd?" The soothing tone is taking on a distinct note of compulsion. An absolute command, capturing his full and undivided attention. "Tell me what happened."

"She did it," Boyd mumbles, swaying on his knees. A tear trickles down his face, slowly mixing with the blood on his cheek. "Oh, God...she couldn't take it any more -- she finally --"

A shriek of pain fills the air, wrenched from his throat.

"You have two seconds to tell me." Darla grinds her spiked heel into the floor, impaling her victim's hand against the concrete surface. "Without pronouns."

"Sh-she -- she killed herself, you know she, oh God --" Boyd writhes on the ground, clutching his wrist. "Please, make it _stop_ \--"

"You really are a slow learner." Lumen sounds almost bored as she pulls a cigarette from behind one ear, snapping a butane torch to life. Boyd's shrieks redouble and he tries to scrabble away from the roaring sound of the flame, fingernails scraping against the concrete.

"You know what? It's pathetic." Darla's fingers slip inside the slit in her dress, questing upward. "That you actually think I would buy this."

Boyd sounds like he's choking. His teeth are clamped shut, his body flopping like a fish on a hook. A stream of blood is slowly leaking from his hand in a growing trickle, painting a thin line across the uneven floor.

A flash of garter is revealed around Darla's thigh. Right before she pulls a wooden stake from her hidden holster.

"No!" Boyd's actually looking up, meeting Darla's gaze head on. His desperate eyes roll in their sockets like that of some crazed horse, bucking to avoid the blade. "I won't fuckin' do it! I won't --"

"Mother _fucker_ \--" Lumen freezes in her tracks as Darla looks up, staring the younger vampire down.

"Tell me," Darla whispers. The point of her stake presses in, just beneath Boyd's chin. "Tell me everything."

"Lu -- killed her." A sob from Boyd. A brief hyperventilation, the horrible and unspeakable sound of grief. "And Dru said --"

"You little _shit!_ " Lumen's snarl is flooded with venom. She shakes off Cole's warning hand with a roar of fury. "I will eat what's left of your miserable excuse for a soul! I swear by that _whore_ \--"

Both of them freeze as Darla yanks her heel free from Boyd's hand, bringing another high-pitched yell of agony.

Darla stands, pulling her captive along with her. Boyd quivers and cringes in her grasp, staring into the void.

"What did she say?" Darla's unwavering gaze is fixed upon the two vampires standing across from her. Behind her stands the one called Rachel, hands by her sides, relaxed and at the ready.

"S-something about -- a white knight? Your white knight -- will not s-save you --" Boyd hiccups. He tries to swallow, gagging and spitting up blood.

"And the Slayer?" Darla holds him up in her left hand, the stake in her right poised against his thin shirt directly over his breastbone. "Was there anything about the Slayer?"

"Yeah!" Boyd's eyes light up in recollection. In sheer joy, at having not failed after all. " _The littlest killer of men -- shall be the Slayer, who_ \-- um...covers the earth? Be fruitful, and multiply -- I --"

He falls silent. His face twists in despair, grief threatening to overwhelm him.

"It's okay, honey." Darla pulls him close, gathering him to her bosom. She gently pats his heaving back and shoulders, continuing to glare down his two tormenters. "You did good."

"I did?" Boyd's trembling voice is muffled against her.

Cole blinks, but Lumen's face never flickers. At Boyd's grunt of surprise; at the soft moan that issues from his lips as he freezes in place, his head thrown back with open mouth.

Becomes dust, and disappears.

"You did."

Darla's beauty is a porcelain mask as she wipes assorted bodily fluids from her dress. She looks over at Lumen, the slightest twitch passing over her face.

"Congratulations." Darla offers a sardonic smile. "Was it worth it?"

Lumen's right hand flexes, as if she's struggling to avoid making a fist. Her gaze flicks over Darla's shoulder, the tension in her stance easing by a hair.

"Guess not." Darla frowns, looking disappointed. "I ought to be insulted, you know. But really -- it's a relief to know you've given up on trying to bed me."

An involuntary snort from Lumen finishes as an actual bark of laughter.

"Fine." Lumen looks around the dingy room. Her nostalgia appears tinged with at least some degree of regret. "Miami's yours. I'm out of here."

"Oh, don't be silly." Darla turns to Rachel. "Find her."

Rachel looks only mildly surprised, and that briefly. Lumen stiffens as the bodyguard walks forward and past without breaking stride, throwing open the heavy door to disappear beyond.

"All the signs are coming to pass."

Darla holds up the stake between her index fingers, gazing over the length of wood at both her foes. Back and forth, between Cole and Lumen, like a teacher imparting something vital.

"Everything that so-called lunatic predicted. And you think you can run from what's coming?" Her dark and cynical chuckle draws a flinch from Cole. "I'd like to see you try. But someone like you?"

She tosses the stake toward Lumen. The other vampire blinks, before catching it in her grasp.

"I'd rather have them fighting for me."

"I'll fight with you." Lumen sounds monumentally bored, regarding her elder with ever more critical appraisal. "As long as it's not too much trouble."

"You do realize that if Dru was right? This girl could be the greatest threat we've ever faced. Not just us. Every last demon forced to coexist on this miserable little rock." Darla pauses, letting this sink in. "Unless we make her an ally."

A sarcastic exhalation is Lumen's only audible response. But there's a new level of wariness and calculation in her eyes.

"So be a dear..." Darla turns her devastating smile on Cole as he stares straight ahead, trying not to meet her gaze. "And loan me your boy."

  


* * *

  


The path back is even more treacherous with the sun down. Astor has to wait for her legs to quit shaking before she can rise to her feet without bending over, spewing up and painting the ground with thirty dollars worth of porterhouse. She inhales through clenched teeth, fighting off dizziness and staring up at the faint twinkle of stars.

All the lights are on inside. The house shines like a jeweled beacon, brighter than any star. Or at least closer. An oasis of safety amidst the chaotic ocean of reality.

She belongs here. All she has to do is walk inside.

She covers the distance to the edge of the back fence without missing a single step. Even though the whole time she's scanning the darkness like some super secret agent. Watching for unknown enemies, waiting for them to spring from the shadows. The irregular stone path up the hillside leads to the patio, the security of double glazed windows and deadbolts.

Astor cuts left into mulch covered flowerbeds, treading light as she can. The trees are thickest on this side of the house. She crouches low at the base of the biggest one, watching the street for any sign of action. But the cul-de-sac is completely deserted. Even the annoying dog next door hasn't made a sound since she left the deeper woods, out by the swamp.

She emerges from the trees, striding quickly across the driveway, glancing from side to side. Not a hint of unexpected sound or motion jars her focus as her sneakers carry her over the smooth asphalt.

The boys are still in the kitchen, she figures. Maybe the living room. Either way, she can go in through the garage. Be downstairs in the blink of an eye, before anyone can spot her. Take refuge in any one of the nooks and crannies she's having more and more trouble squeezing into --

"Astor."

Her heart soars skyward into her skull. Her brain pounds with blood. For a moment, she's afraid she might fall.

But the female voice is unfamiliar. Gentle; unthreatening. Understanding.

"It's okay." A rustle of metal and cloth reaches her ears as the speaker rises to her feet, abruptly outlined as the motion detecting security light springs to life behind her. Astor glimpses long dark hair, the curve and flow of a long summer dress. "I know you've got questions. And I haven't got all the bloody answers. But I got a few --"

"Fuck off."

A short chuckle comes from the figure blocking her path. "Like I haven't heard that one before."

"I mean it." Astor is proud of how she sounds. Not a trace of fear as she edges around the strange woman, one hand in her pocket, eyes locked on the intruder. "You probably tripped the alarm and don't even know it."

"Well bowled." The English accent is stronger through the obvious amusement. It makes Astor think of super old episodes of Doctor Who, all blurry video and bad puppetwork. "I call."

"Why don't you find out?" Astor's hand comes to rest on the doorknob behind her. "Fucking faggot."

She has time to glimpse a look of disappointment before she slips inside, hastily drawing the door shut. Barely manages to keep it quiet as she struggles, her fingers cold and clammy, finally succeeding in throwing the deadbolt.

She sags against the door, leaning her forehead on the cool metal surface. Her empty fist is still clenched inside her pocket. All her stakes were left in the woods. And she hadn't taken a knife with her. She needs to practice more. Bare handed, every day. As long as it takes --

"Hey." 

"Jesus!" Astor's voice cracks as she whirls about. Dexter stands before her, looking stupid as ever.

"Hey." He raises both hands, without retreating an inch. "You want dessert?"

  


* * *

  


I don't know what I'm expecting. I have no right to expect anything.

But I have to keep trying.

Astor peels off the plastic wrap with a frown. "What is it?"

"Pudding. Homemade," I clarify. "Not too sweet."

She gives the ramekin an experimental sniff. Finally she picks up the spoon and sits down at the table, with a quiet but overly dramatic sigh. Harry stands over and behind, watching her every move.

"Where's he at?" Astor mumbles this around a mouthful of pudding. 

"Sauna." I decide it's time. Time for Dexter to go for broke. "So what are you doing tomorrow?"

"That depends." Astor takes delicate bite-sized digs with her spoon, hunched over the bowl like some famine-stricken refugee. "What do you want me to do?"

"Go talk to a psychic." I gesture over my shoulder with my thumb, as Harry watches from some parallel existence. "And take this ghost with you."

Astor glances up, shaking her head as she returns to her pudding.

  


* * *

  


The man known to the world as Doctor Rudolph Cooper has come a long way since those bloody first moments at the start of all memory. A degree in medicine alone is a miracle. It demonstrates the sheer power of America to allow a person to reinvent themselves. And his already respected reputation has only blossomed, since -- well. Since his hand was forced.

Except the world has been tilted on its axis. Thrown Brian Moser into a new ice age, every prior assumption without form or meaning. 

The tick of expanding metal echoes from cedar plank walls. Brian breathes through his nose, slow and deep. Sweat forms on his chest, trickling down the length of his torso, seeping into the fluffy Turkish bath towel wrapped about his waist. A dim red glow emanates from a light in the wall, mounted behind a plate of rippled glass.

Everything was perfect. Everything under control.

Until Dexter came back from the grave.

He's been grappling with it for what seems like an eternity. Frankly, Brian finds it amazing he can still do his job. With this much distraction on his mind, he could be forgiven a bit of inappropriate nip and tuck. But his hand remains steady, his eye as keen and discerning as ever.

The worst part is Astor. Not that he would ever say it like that. It's been an absolute joy to take her under his wing, to mentor her in all the ways his brother never could. Watching her blossom like some exotic night orchid has been nothing less than his own salvation.

But Dexter's return from beyond the veil put everything they've worked for in jeopardy. Threatens to send her fragile young psyche over the edge.

It was bad enough for him, Brian thinks. And he's a grown man. He's had nearly a lifetime to adjust to the death of his mother, whereas Astor had been dealing with her loss for barely a year. He'd been a child, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing as his mother was torn apart before his eyes; Astor was a bright and developing young woman, on the cusp of her own transformation into adulthood when she'd come back from vacation to learn that Rita had been murdered in her absence. It was all Brian could do to gain guardianship of her when the system threatened to engulf Astor entirely. But his longstanding relationship with the family in the wake of Deb's death had been just the thing to tip the balance in his favor.

So he did what he could. And he hadn't made Astor come to him, wanting to know the truth. He could have remained silent. But the desire to be understood -- to be _seen_ \-- was too strong after losing Dexter from his life. He needed to share it with someone.

And now, ever since Dexter showed up, Astor's been acting more strange by the moment. A logical reaction to a wholly illogical event, yet it bothers Brian more that he can't lay a finger on the nature, or even the direction of her disturbance. He's not worried about a potential alliance between them. Not any time soon. But it never feels good to not understand. Especially when not understanding could probably get you --

_"Hey, lover."_

He flies up and off the wooden bench, nearly slamming his head into the ceiling. Brian falls back, breathing heavily, staring at the dimly glowing figure outlined in the dull halo of red.

Of another dead person, seemingly once more come to life.

 _"Surprise."_ Deb grins and strikes a saucy pose. The black bikini is barely present on her thin and angular frame, a set of bandages connected with a few scant bits of string. It's enough to send a sudden rush of blood to Brian's groin, his traitorous flesh uncurling and rubbing against the luxurious softness of the towel. The familiar arrogant cut of her jaw, the slightly cockeyed look to one pupil, are light years beyond any uncanny valley.

His fingers tremble slightly as he reaches out. A shiver runs up his backside as the digits pass through the image of Deb, without a hint of feeling. Not even the slightest change in temperature.

 _"Oops."_ Deb leans over, her ghostly eyes bright and shining, getting right in his face. She pulls away and turns round, boyish hips going into a coquettish wiggle. _"Can't touch this."_

A groan tries to work free from Brian's lips. He manages a shaky laugh.

"Okay." He stares at the twin moons of her behind, divided by a thong. "Is it wrong that I find that slightly less disturbing?"

 _"Than the alternative?"_ Deb gives him a girlish pout over one pale, slim shoulder. _"You really do need to unwind."_

"I have my outlets." He can't believe he's saying these words. Seeing a woman who's literally not quite there, who nonetheless feels entitled to converse with him. Talk about inconsiderate.

But this isn't the first impossible thing to have happened in recent times. And if the world truly has gone mad, then it's more important than ever that he and Astor remain calm. Remain focused.

 _"Sure you don't want to take matters into your own hands?"_ Deb grabs the wall, pushing her ass back at him in blatant invitation. _"Or maybe that big hunk of --"_

The door to the sauna flies open and slams into the plaster wall. Brian stumbles through the flagrant temptation, trying not to fall or injure himself as he goes. It feels like he's fighting for every drop of air as he staggers toward the pool, his towel ridiculously tented.

He barely has the presence of mind to take the deepest breath possible right before he falls in, losing the towel in the process. The shock of cooler water goes straight to every nerve ending, the heat of his groin immediately contracting. He holds himself under until his lungs are cracking, feeling a growing scream inside his frail chest before finally surfacing; blindly grabbing onto the edge, hauling himself out to roll over on his back, dripping and gasping.

 _"Aw, he's no fun."_ Deb frowns at his crotch, wearing a look of profound and genuine disappointment. _"He fell right over."_

"You're not helping," Brian wheezes. His teeth are starting to chatter. "You're not here to help me."

_"Are you kidding? I'm gonna be the best friend you ever had."_

Deb squats down beside him, the fresh reveal of her inner thighs and more a magnet for his unwilling gaze.

 _"And all you have to do, is..."_ A devilish grin lights up her face. _"Exactly what you're doing."_

Brian stares up at his dead lover. "I'm following the Code."

_"Sure thing, lover."_

She smirks and leans over, nonexistent lips passing through his trembling flesh.

_"Whatever you say."_


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deb gets a short infodump, a mild dressing down and a pep talk from an unlikely source. Astor has another encounter with that same woman. Doakes shares some insights with Angel. Dexter does some surfing. Vince drops the big one on Angel. Dexter does some sparring. Brian is hot to trot. Astor has an interesting report. So does Harry. And Astor has a nighttime visitor.

_Original Universe_

She's been on hold too long.

Of course, any amount of time on hold is too long. And it's not like this compares to any of the many agencies of the city of Miami she's had to deal with, on or off the job. But in the case of her missing brother, Deb is finding any delay at all to be fucking intolerable.

She could go elsewhere. It's not like there are no other options. The New Watcher's Council isn't the only game in town, or in the world. Just the biggest and strongest of all the decent ones -- and of those, the most benevolent and well-inclined toward humanity as a whole. They're more hands-on than the stodgy traditionalists who preceded them; more willing to work with those outside their circles of knowledge and power, including a Slayer's friends and family.

Case in point that they're talking to Deb. As in at all. The old Council would have told her to piss off and pound sand. Maybe arrange for her to be quietly assassinated, if she didn't shut up.

So it's great that she has people to talk to. People who are willing and able to help find her brother and bring him home. On the other hand, every time the subject of Faith comes up it results in another one of those long and awkward silences. No matter who she's talking to.

She's pretty sure it won't be Giles this time. Which is a shame, in more ways than one. Next time, she'll tell him he should be doing audiobooks. And when he asks her why, she'll just say it's because he sounds like sex on a stick. It'll be so worth it.

In the meantime she's only hoping. Outright praying, that it won't be --

_"Hey, Deb."_

"Hey there." She swallows back a fiery curse. "How's the weather?"

 _"Rainy."_ Andrew's formerly cheery tone sounds more than a bit discouraged, before brightening once more. _"But enough about our enchanted isle. I have here the executive summary on the Morgan expedition, as compiled by Miss Summers and myself."_

"Dawn?" Almost always, she feels the need to clarify. Although Astor herself has had more contact with the infamous Buffy at this point than it seems Deb ever will.

 _"I told her she could have top billing."_ Andrew clears his throat. _"The teal deer is that none of our dimensional probes, so to speak, have found any trace of your brother. So rather than go into exhaustive, boring and frankly unnecessary detail on said probes --"_

"And who doesn't like a good probing." Deb smirks, despite being unseen. Just keeping in shape.

 _"Which are still in progress -- hold on."_ A loud buzz in the background is fading, disappearing as Andrew apparently moves away from its source.

 _"So we sat down and did a little brainstorming. And Dawn thinks, and I concur, that wherever Dexter is right now?"_ Andrew's dramatic pause is mercifully shorter than usual. _"Is a world without Rita."_

"Huh." Deb frowns as she considers the possibilities. "So not what you were thinking at first?"

 _"There were a lot of good reasons upholding our initial assessment."_ Andrew sounds only moderately defensive. Which with Andrew, is about as good as it gets. _"Faith had some very compelling -- um."_

"Jesus." Deb's frustrated growl is enough to set her own teeth on edge. "You too? The gossip queen of the castle? You're seriously going to shut me out on girl talk just because I'm the bad guy here?"

 _"Bad guy?"_ Andrew's confusion is more than apparent. _"Who said --"_

"As far as I'm concerned? Anyone inside the cone of silence has made up their mind about which side I belong on." Deb stares down at her open hand, flexing it into a fist and back again. It's amazing how foreign your own body can appear to itself. The wiggle of her fingers is like some alien facehugger, waiting to pounce upon its next unsuspecting victim. "Either that, or they don't think I'm good enough for her."

 _"I wish it were that simple. But we're all flying blind here."_ Andrew heaves a sigh of his own. _"The Dark Slayer holds her cards close to her impressive and well developed chest."_

Deb doesn't even roll her eyes. "You mean she doesn't talk to you."

 _"Lone wolves have a hard time. Learning to, um...run with the pack."_ A hesitant cough. _"Settling down with a mate --"_

"And that's about more than far enough down that road." Deb's irritation is free now, unfettered by the slightest restraint. She's ready to go on a roll when Andrew surprises her.

_"This isn't just about you."_

The surprise is how he says it. Louder, but not angry. Or whiny. An actual tone of authority, commanding her attention.

 _"It's about all of the people who are depending on her. In the field, in the classroom -- yeah. She's a teacher. Because Buffy wanted her to be one."_ A deep breath. _"Except now she's back on the train to Self Doubtsville at a hundred and eighty-eight miles an hour. And Dana has to spend all her time away from the castle, because half the girls are freaking out all over again about not having any secrets from her. We're in the middle of negotiating five peace treaties. We're fighting off three hostile interdimensional incursions -- that we know of. We're being sued by a concerned parents group that started taking advice from the wrong lawyer, there's a leak in the roof right over the main training room, and someone melted down my cast iron pan that I use to make real campfire style cornbread because they needed it for a spell. And I'm not saying I would've rather had the bird demons come in and murder us all and take over the castle, I'm just saying --"_

Deb sighs. "Things are tough all over."

A heavy sigh echoes her own. _"Pretty much."_

"Well. When you put it like that -- like I told my niece." Deb offers a bashful and apologetic smile to the air in front of her. "Sorry if I broke your balls."

 _"It's okay."_ The pause is just long enough to make her wonder, before Andrew continues.

 _"I had a friend. Not -- she was one of Buffy's crew. Her people."_ Andrew takes a deep breath. _"But she hung out with me. And we talked, and we...robbed. Medical supplies. And we talked about what we were going to do. If we made it out."_

Safe bet she didn't, Deb thinks. "I'm sorry."

 _"I'm just saying -- I know what it's like. To lose someone."_ The shakiness is still there in Andrew's voice, but his resolve is clear. _"So I'm not giving up. And neither should you."_

Deb stares at the picture on the counter. Her and Dexter, in happier or at least more innocent times.

"On my brother."

 _"Or on Faith."_ Andrew's tone turns conspiratorial. _"So do you want her new number or not?"_

Deb sighs, kicking her heels up and onto the desk with a thud.

"Hit me."

  


* * *

  


I drift amid the untold depths. Without form or body. Until vaguely, I become aware of a dull pain. My thoughts begin to coalesce as I float up and out from sleep, up to the surface.

I open my eyes to the rotating fan, hanging from a stark white ceiling. The down pillows and mattress underneath me are doing nothing to alleviate the aching knot in my lower back. Whether it's from bad positioning or a night of tossing and turning, I can't say. I know I had unpleasant dreams, but I can't recall a single detail.

I spend a a few minutes examining myself in the bathroom mirror. The stubble on my chin and cheeks is beginning to itch. More worrying than my increasingly disheveled appearance is the vacant stare gazing back at me. The vague sense of desperation, without a trace of hope.

Astor doesn't look much better when I finally make it to the kitchen. She sits at the table, hunched over a cup of coffee so light in shade it must be half milk. Her blue jeans and hooded sweatshirt are freshly laundered, her face scrubbed near raw. From the living room I hear jazz on the stereo, the faint sound of someone typing.

"He's running late." Astor says this low, almost under her breath.

Phantom Harry stands by the back door watching over his granddaughter. The crags of his face, the lines of age etched on his ghostly flesh, all reflect a growing trepidation as he gazes down at her. Astor continues to nurse her coffee, unaware of her invisible observer.

I could wish he was a guardian angel. But so far, this version of Harry remains identical to my own imagination in the most important way that matters: Both are completely cut off from the physical realm. Apart from my seeing and hearing them, they might as well not exist. And at this point I'm pretty sure the old one didn't. But if anything happens to Astor, Harry's helpless to do anything but watch.

I'm hoping today will provide some clues about this Harry, as well as some concrete evidence regarding his motivations. If I can't trust this restless spirit, for whatever reason, then all bets are off. Back to a world without allies.

I busy myself making my own coffee. Eventually I hear the music stop, and a moment later Brian walks into the kitchen. He's spiffed and shined, clean shaven, in a more traditional suit and tie. Even his hair is freshly clipped, still bushy but no longer brushing against his collar, dangling almost to his eyes.

"I want to see a movie today." Astor announces this in a bored tone. She stares at the wall, hands curled around her mug. "And I don't want a taxi. I want to take the bus."

I can see the obvious concern before Brian opens his mouth. Astor overrides his concerns with a preemptive strike.

"I used to ride the bus with Mom all the time." She hesitates briefly. "There's kids. Younger than me, that walk all over the city. Every day."

"I know." Brian tries and fails to capture her gaze. "I just worry."

"You worry about everything." Astor finally turns to him, looking like she's studying alien life under a microscope. "You think we should worry about people coming back from the dead?"

"Astor --" Brian swallows, and falls silent.

I realize my brother is looking more pale than usual. Under the facade of normality, he seems rather severely shaken.

"I'll be fine for the day," I interject. "I can use the computer."

"Right." Brian looks around the room. It seems like an attempt to reassure himself that everything's in order. More and more, he strikes me as eager to be out of the house and well away from this place.

"I'll be fine." Astor allows a sarcastic note of affection to creep into her voice. "Go on."

Brian checks his tie in the mirror on the wall, giving it a quick token straightening. "What movie?"

A smirk lifts one corner of Astor's mouth, on the side facing me. " _Brave_."

Brian frowns, obviously trying to recall. "What's that?"

"Remember?" Astor is only mildly impatient. "We saw the trailer. The cartoon, with the redhead girl?"

"Oh. Sure." Brian looks relieved for a moment. "Well -- have a good time."

I wait for the sound of the BMW's engine outside. Then I wait until I see the actual car, easing out of the circular driveway and into the street.

"So are you actually seeing a movie?" I ask.

"None of your business." Astor directs a glare around the room, then at me as she stands up. "Tell your ghost I'm not waiting."

Harry doesn't say a word as he follows her silently out of the kitchen. He only sends me a brief backward glance, radiating fatalism.

With the house to myself, I've got surfing to do. Last night's talk with Brian was only a start. He may have verified the bare skeleton of everything I've managed to intuit so far. But it's still only one man's word.

And even if he's telling the truth? I'm told the Devil can -- and does -- quote the Bible. Knows every word, forward and back. He sounds like a lawyer.

And I'm all too aware myself. From all too much experience, as a veteran and practiced liar.

The truth is the best lie of all.

  


* * *

  


It's amazing how a typical bright and sunny Miami morning can put a totally different perspective on things. Even though over the last year, Astor's been pretty well desensitized to natural beauty. It doesn't seem normal, or at all fair, that such things continue to exist in a world without Mom.

And now she's seen a ghost. Or something that might be one. Supposedly, there's another one walking beside her right now.

The bus stop is six blocks away, well out of their quiet little neighborhood, on the nearest main street. Astor doesn't rush. It feels good to stretch her legs, to wave at the neighbors and watch the squirrels chittering madly at the deer in the next yard over, munching on the tall ornamental grass. One of the fawns lifts its head as she passes, staring at her with big liquid eyes.

It's hardly a marathon, but her thighs are feeling a bit of a burn as Astor nears the intersection. At least she's moved beyond concern for the spirit world; begun to think of her options for how to spend the day before attending to her sole responsibility. Pretty sure that won't take long.

She checks the time on her phone as she comes round the corner. Almost on the dot. Just a few more minutes, until --

"Let's try that again, shall we?"

Her pace falters and slows. "What the hell do you want?"

The woman standing by the but stop looks even less of a threat than she did last night in the shadows. With her long brown hair, colorful summer dress and comfortable shoes, she looks like a teacher or librarian. Only her relaxed and ready stance, the glint in her eye serve as contrast to her soft and gentle curves.

"Thought you might not trust a social worker." A wry grimace as the woman lifts her lanyard for inspection, letting it drop. "But apparently you don't trust anyone, so -- good on you."

"Anyone can fake ID." Astor remains at what seems a safe distance. Internally she's cursing her lack of weapons, the discretion that could be her doom. "And I'm done talking to DCF."

"You can still talk to me."

Astor bites down on the first thing that threatens to surge. She doesn't like how her mouth is becoming increasingly foul. It doesn't help that this woman comes across as utterly genuine. And the rough and tumble English accent only makes her seem smarter, without sounding pretentious.

"Why would I want to?" Astor manages a sneer.

The woman gives an exhausted chuckle before turning her face to the sky with her eyes closed, wearing an expression of sheer bliss. Basking in the light of the sun, like it's one non-stop orgasm.

"Because I know what you are."

Like _that_ doesn't make her heart skip a beat. Astor swallows and looks around, trying to judge whether she ought to run.

"What you will be." The woman shakes off her euphoria, turns the full force of her suddenly very intense gaze upon Astor. "What you could be."

"If I just listen to you?" Astor can already feel this conversation threatening to go off the rails. She's still shaken from last night's vision, despite being out in broad daylight.

"Not quite." It comes across as a rueful and frank admission. Astor gapes as the woman continues.

"I can tell you what's going to happen -- even why, for a change. Still up to you what you do with it." She gives a shake of her head, wearing a look of infinite remorse. "Christ, I'd like a bloody cigarette."

Astor's getting that lightheaded feeling. Like when right before she and Brian take someone down. Once they're unconscious, all tightly wrapped up in plastic, she's fine. But those moments leading up to it are always the worst. It's part of why the moment of their death comes as such a sublime relief.

She manages to sound baffled rather than weak. "Who the hell are you?"

"So many answers to that one." The woman laughs again, shaking her head in seeming dismay at the sheer ludicrous spectacle. "But I suppose I'm here in my more official capacity. More like my day job."

"And what do you do at night?" Astor can see the bus down the street, less than a block away. "Stalk and creep on little girls?"

Another smirk distorts that kind and pretty face. "You rather I talk to that nice man you live with?"

"Stay away from me." Astor says it perfectly, without raising her voice in the slightest. "If I see you again, I'm calling my friend. His name is Angel, and he's a detective. With the police."

She pulls her phone from her pocket, finger poised. "Or I can call him right now."

The woman raises her hands in a gesture of graceful defeat, wearing an amused look as she backs away. Astor keeps both eyes on her as the bus comes to a stop behind them.

She hurries onboard the moment the doors swing open, doesn't look back as she runs her Easy card and finds an empty seat. Only as the bus is pulling away does Astor look out the window. The stranger is nowhere to be found.

Her hands are starting to tremble.

Astor takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes, and begins to clear her mind.

She realizes her fingers are digging into the seat. She lets go and looks down at her hand. Then makes a fist and slams it down with all her might, into her thigh.

Tears spring to her eyes and she clutches the sore spot, ignoring the lady staring at her from across the aisle. Sure, it's better than nothing. But the few times she's sought to cause herself deliberate pain have convinced her it's more trouble than it's worth. She can't imagine how some people can do what they do to themselves. At least they're not doing it to someone else.

People like that? Who hurt other people? They're not people at all.

They're fair game.

  


* * *

  


"You're actually signing off on this?" An outthrust ebon finger trembles over the sheet of white paper, pressing into the offending lines of print. "The guy does everything but come out and say fucking vampires did it!"

"I admit the wording is a little tricky," Angel says. Right now would be a great time for a glazed donut, fresh from the bakery and gently warmed in the microwave. Unfortunately for his department, the entire concept has been irrevocably linked with a certain blood spatter analyst who turned out to be a serial killer hiding right under their nose. In a post-Dexter age, nobody's willing to be the new person who brings in a box of pastries to pass around.

He looks up at the hulking figure of Doakes, looming over his desk. From this angle his top-heavy colleague resembles a bull, pissed off by its own lack of horns. It wouldn't be a surprise to see angry jets of steam come billowing out of the man's ears. 

"But I'd say this past year has taught us all to take a little more care when it comes to covering our asses." Angel keeps his tone amicable, without a speck of confrontation. "So unless you've got a problem with the facts --"

"Oh, I don't have a problem with the facts." Doakes shakes his head as he glares around the dingy and dismal space of their open office. "Just his batshit insane conclusions."

"You let me worry about that." Angel slides the file into a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. "Anything else?"

"I got nothing. But I tell you what." Doakes looks ready to murder someone himself. His beefy hands twitch at his sides, on the verge of clenching into fists. "I guarantee you there's a woman in this."

"Really." Angel shifts in his chair.

"At least one. And their job?" Doakes nods, rock certain of his reasoning. "Is to look nice and unthreatening. Get people to let down their guard."

Angel doesn't like the sound of that. More so because it's disturbingly plausible. But it also seems to gel with the patterns that are finally beginning to appear, out of the mountain of missing and mutilated.

"Stay on that," Angel says. "Let me know what you find. I gotta make some calls." 

Doakes gives him a brief smirk. "Another hot date?"

Angel shrugs, offering a weary smile in return.

"Hope springs eternal."

  


* * *

  


I make a circuit through the entire house, just to make sure I don't see any ghosts lurking on the premises. When the spirit of Harry fails to materialize, I wander back to the living room, where I sit down at the laptop and stare at the glowing screen.

I could install a browser that encrypts all traffic from this address and bounces it through a series of relays. That would provide some degree of anonymity. It would also be a red flag to any law enforcement agency worth its salt. Someone who previously sent all their mail on postcards, suddenly switching to sealed envelopes? That would make even the laziest bureaucrat sit up and take notice.

I squint at the system tray. One of the icons is for a padlock. Clicking it reveals a virtual private network, that's apparently been installed on this machine the entire time. No wonder the connection felt slow. Like my colleagues are fond of saying, good enough for government work.

With a bare minimum level of security established, I begin searching. It doesn't take long to collate the obituaries:

 _Debra Morgan_. On the same date my brother originally tried to convince me to kill her.

 _Rita Bennett_. Not Morgan. The day she had been murdered in my world by Arthur Mitchell, the Trinity Killer.

And the crowning glory, on that very same day: My own name. On every TV, computer screen and front page. In death, so much larger than life.

The official story was that Rita had discovered my secret. That I'd been killing people since Deb, if not before. And so I'd slain the woman I had pretended to love; bled her out, before turning the blade on myself in an uncharacteristic fit of remorse. The police subsequently realized I had also murdered my sister, which started the avalanche. The homicide department is apparently still dealing with the fallout.

Of course there are hints of something more to the story, if one looks closer; reading between the lines, dabbling in the seedier back alleys of online discussion. But nothing concrete. No one who seems to have realized how many pieces there are to the puzzle. A search for Lumen Pierce yields only a Minnesota posting from over a year ago, circulated by her family, imploring: _We miss you. We love you. Please come home._

I'm typing in _Jordan Chase_ when I hear the jingle of keys and the front door opening. I backspace over it and stand up with a wince, feeling a lingering ache in my spine.

"Hey." Brian's carrying a paper shopping bag from some high end bath and beauty establishment. It smells of lilacs. "I got done early."

"What time is it?" It doesn't seem like I've been sitting that long at the computer. Except for my eyes, which I realize are feeling a bit strained.

"Little after three. Astor probably won't be back until after six." Brian sets the bag on the table in the entryway, shrugging off his jacket with a little sigh. When he turns, there's a distinct gleam in his eye.

"Want to spar?"

"That sounds --" I think about how I truly feel.

Then smile.

"Fun."

  


* * *

  


"I understand you can't give out personal information about employees. I absolutely respect the privacy issues here, ma'am. I just need --"

Angel directs a sigh well away from the receiver as the person on the other end launches a fresh salvo. He's been through two departments, four voicemails and three actual people in his quest to verify the identity of one worker. The only thing he's managed to confirm is that Catherine Willoughby is in fact part of the DCF. Trying to get through the bureaucracy is proving more hellish than normal.

"I absolutely don't need that, ma'am. But I would like you to confirm her physical appearance. So I know I was talking to the right -- no, ma'am. I would never say something like that. No matter how --"

A knock comes from the side of his cubicle. Angel glances over to see the other bald head in their department. He nods in greeting, holding up one hand.

"No ma'am. I was going to say, no matter how drunk I was." Angel rolls his eyes, looking over at Vince with a shrug. "Well, then it's my fault for a poor attempt at humor. If you could just --"

Vince wears a look of silent amusement as he takes a seat. By the time Angel hangs up, he's shaking his head in seeming disbelief.

"You said you got drunk with her last night?"

"I said I drank with her last night." Angel rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to press away the remnants of headache. 

"You could have just grabbed her shot glass." Vince gives a knowing nod and holds up one hand, fingers spread. "My name is prints?"

"Contrary to popular belief, _amigo_? Most social workers do not have criminal records." Angel's belatedly thinking that actually sounds like a good idea when he notices the look on Vince's face. "What's up?"

Vince looks around the office. Across the room, LaGuerta's door is shut, her blinds pulled all the way down. No sign of Doakes.

"Vampires are real."

Angel stares. Vince leans closer, his earnest expression utterly without flaw or imperfection.

"And I think Dexter might be one."

Angel blinks. At least that still works. Regardless, his first instinct is to reassure himself that he hasn't gone completely insane. Then he can worry about Vince.

"Okay." He returns the earnest gaze, cautiously attempting some kind of verification. "Dexter _Morgan_?" 

"I saw him, Angel." The dead serious from Vince never wavers. "I know what it sounds like."

Angel doesn't blink. "You saw Dexter."

"With my own two eyes." Vince swallows but doesn't look away. "And those binoculars in your glove box."

"And why do you think -- never mind." Angel shakes his head. Unable to process doesn't begin to cover his mental state right now.

"I don't care if you don't believe me," Vince continues. "Just take it seriously. Until someone can prove I'm crazy, and if it's bullshit? I'll resign. Quietly. For health reasons."

Angel silently takes it all in.

"But if I'm not crazy? This is way bigger than both of us. Bigger than every cop in the state." Vince's expression is as solemn as the grave. "And if that's the case? Then we need to be investing in premium hazmat suits. Because the colossal mother of all poop hurricanes is coming. And it's going to make this whole last year look like a gentle breeze."

Angel nods, momentarily lost in thought. He can hope and pray with all his heart and soul that Vince is wrong, if not crazy. But maybe the best they can do is prepare for the worst.

"So," Vince says. "Knowing all that, I have one question for you."

Angel can't bring himself to lie. "I'm afraid."

A flicker of fear briefly disrupts the smaller man's face. "Join the club."

"What is it?"

Vince takes another look around the empty office. Then he leans in further still, his eyes looking twice normal size at this close range.

"Can we trust Doakes?"

Angel tries not to wince. "You mean not to rip your head off if you tell him this shit?"

"I mean to not go running to LaGuerta." Vince removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his own nose. He looks profoundly emotionally exhausted.

Angel sends out a cautious feeler. "I thought you were worried about your job."

Vince shakes his head. "Some things are more important."

"That's true." It doesn't take Angel long to decide.

"Come on." He rises from his chair, giving Vince a hearty shoulder clap. "Let's try and get at least one shot down him first."

  


* * *

  


I can't remember the last time I felt this much excitement.

Not without a victim.

It's been almost two years since I found someone who fit the Code. Two years since I hunted and killed another human being, dispatching their dismembered remains to a watery grave. Two years of having other things on my mind, ever since Astor showed up at my door with a stake in her pocket, complaining of disturbing dreams.

I've done my best to train her. But I can't deny it's safer to let her fellow Slayers fill that role. Far too easy for an untrained and exuberant youngster to injure or kill a normal human being. As Astor is all too aware from her own unfortunate experience.

Ever since I came to this world, I've been looking for all the things that make it different from my own. In some ways, this Brian is the least different from the person I remember. And the most. This entire afternoon has been quintessentially surreal, a glimpse into one of a theoretically infinite number of alternate realities. A world where I never lost my brother. Where he and I can just pick right up and ignore whatever horrible and bloody past might have brought us together.

We're standing in the makeshift gymnasium that adjoins the pool room. Both of us are wearing only sweatpants. I'm brimming over with energy, ready to take him down the moment our bare feet hit the mat. But my partner has other things on his mind.

"How much longer?" I ask.

"Until you learn patience, grasshopper." Brian's rhythm never falters, nor the smile on his face. His hands move in easy, graceful circles, countering my movements.

I close my eyes in order to better follow his motion. A light slap hits the side of my hand.

"Focus," Brian commands. His arms slide back into place, interlocking with mine.

I open my eyes again. Brian stares at me with burning intensity, swaying gently back and forth to maintain balance as I try to push him off. His breath is slow and steady, his feet seemingly glued to the floor.

I try to relax and find the rhythm as I stare back at him. There's a surprising amount of strength in those slender arms, his whipcord thin torso nearly as well defined as Bruce Lee's. It shows more when he's actually exerting some effort. Which most of the time, he doesn't seem to be at all.

"I want you to work with us," Brian says. 

"When?"

"Soon." His promise skips like a stone, over the surface of my thoughts.

"Tell me," I say. "About the person we're going after."

"Not yet." Brian's response is more forceful this time. His eyes hold on to mine. Our forearms press together, twisting aside and back again.

I have to ask. "Did I kill Deb?"

"To be fair --" Brian wears a look of regret as we continue to push hands. "I did present it as her or me."

I feel mental fingers close around another piece of the puzzle. "I chose you."

Brian nods, frowning in concentration.

"But it wasn't enough." I'm pushing further, with more speed and force. Leaning into his personal space, letting intuition lead the way. "You still didn't trust me."

"You're remembering." But Brian's words of encouragement are tempered with concern. Underneath the brotherly love, he's worried.

That tells me something else. He thinks I'm the same Dexter that he once knew, returned to him through some unknown magical device. He hasn't even considered the possibility that from my perspective, we have very different history.

"Did I kill Rita?"

"They found her in the bathtub." His eyes flash as our hands move back and forth at increasing speed. "Completely drained. Every drop of blood in her body."

"And how much of that was actually --" I overtake his speed, adding an extra twist. " _In_ the bathtub?"

I see the surprise on his face. The brief disruption of concentration.

I throw my hands open wide, spreading Brian's apart, exposing his chest. I start to move in but he's already recovered, planting both feet and trying to push me away.

I grab him by the wrists and pull him in hard towards me. He stumbles only briefly, then brings up a knee, planting it between us before I can fully grapple with him. His teeth are wet and white and grinning, his lithe body squirming in my grip. I'm trying to hang on when I realize he's sacrificing his own position, jerking to one side.

Gravity overtakes us both and the floor rushes up to meet us. But his grin changes to a look of surprise when my deliberate addition to our inertia continues the roll of our bodies, ending with me on top.

"Well."

The chuckle sounds pretty relaxed for a man with a forearm to his throat. My other hand holds Brian's wrist pinned to the mat, one knee jammed up against his crotch hard enough to bring a wince and a squirming adjustment. I feel the twitch of flesh inside his trousers, warm against my thigh.

As we stare each other down, I realize I'm waiting for him to say something else. Then the moment passes. I relinquish my grip, easing off the pressure as we help each other to our feet.

"I've got to say." Brian chuckles again as we stand facing one another, hands clasped in mutual support. "You come up with some interesting questions."

"Do you know anyone else?" I ask. As if I would never suspect or accuse my own brother. "Someone who might want to empty all of the blood out of a human being?"

Brian frowns. I realize I didn't say _another human_.

"I wouldn't put it past Sergeant Doakes." His smile is decidedly grim. "Some of those Special Forces guys can be pretty wacked out."

I'm still processing the fact that Doakes is alive. At the same time I'm realizing how unlikely it is that Astor will be convinced I didn't kill her mother. One by one, obstacles in my path keep piling up. 

"Dex --" Brian squeezes my hands, staring deeply into my eyes. "I'm not the man I used to be. If I had it all, to do over -- I wouldn't try to make you choose me over Deb. I wouldn't --"

He swallows, seemingly overcome.

"I wouldn't want to."

I can believe it. I want to. And yet I still need more than faith, as I stand there trying to discern truth from the mere evidence of my senses. The look in his eye; the quaver of remorse in his spoken words.

And the Brian I remember could fake every single one of those emotions. Was a pitch perfect imitator of genuine good will and humanity. A flawless mimic, who made me look like an antique wooden dummy in comparison.

"What about Rita?" My words sound as hollow as my soul. "Did I really --"

"It doesn't matter!"

His arms encircle me, hugging until it hurts. I barely have the will to reciprocate. Tears prick my eyes at the scent of his sweat, the trembling in his body.

"You're here now." His hands move over the bare expanse of my back, in great sweeping strokes. "Whatever happened? Before --"

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

"It doesn't matter."

I wish I could believe his words, as I return that desperate embrace. But I know better. For both of us, the past is prologue.

I only hope it won't be epitaph.

  


* * *

  


Every cell in his body hums with invisible current. Every last inch of skin is hyper sensitized, sanded down to the raw nerves.

And Dexter isn't even breaking a sweat.

Brian finds this the most maddening part of all. The last time he shared a bed with someone was Deb. And he'd never been able to fully open up to her. For obvious reasons.

Since Rita's death, he's had to put on hold even the appearance of healthy normality; put almost all of his focus outside of work into Astor's training and development. Now it feels as though his long-suffering body is trying to satisfy its primal urges by any means available. Taking his love for his brother -- his own flesh and blood -- and twisting it into something else.

He has to laugh at the notion, the very concept of _perverse_. After the things he's done, outright reveled in, Brian knows he's damned beyond all hope of redemption. But that's never been the point.

It's not about him.

He manages to distract himself and Dexter with idle banter over lunch. A necessary skill for human animals anywhere in a social jungle. Dexter seems more than willing to play along, readily retreating from further discussion of sensitive topics. But for all the relief it brings, Brian's frustration remains at a peak. Between his newly awakened libido and the terrors of tiptoeing through conversational minefields, he's already impatient for Astor to return from her outing. It would give him something less dangerous to think about.

 _"I'm hurt."_ Deb lets out a dramatic sigh, one hand on her forehead as she reclines against the counter. _"A girl might start to think you'd forgotten about her."_

The lilting tones aren't enough to make him look. Not at the the handle of the knife, gleaming under the light as it protrudes out from her chest. Not at the slow trail of blood that runs down her nude torso, around her navel, into the valley of her bikini line.

Peripheral vision is more than enough. He sits across from Dexter, watching his back from the dead brother use the last of a toasted ham on rye to mop up the last of a bowl of soup. Like it's the most normal thing in the world. As though Deb weren't pushing herself upright, strolling toward them with a sexy smile and a decided swing in her hips.

 _"I thought you liked me in red."_ Deb's taunt is accompanied by a light pattering sound.

Brian swallows, reaching for his lemonade. She can't be real. Not when Dexter can sit there chewing away, oblivious to the light trail of droplets being left on the floor behind her.

He's never had a cerebrovascular event, that he knows of. The MRI a few months back showed no sign of organic lesions. As a staunch materialist, Brian's never given much thought to the supposed mind-body dichotomy. It's nothing more than chemical reactions, all the way down.

That leaves insanity. Which is a grey area of infinite space, depending from where you look at it. Through all his years of wielding a blade, both in and out of the operating theater, Brian has never had reason to doubt the accuracy of his perceptions. Doubting himself, now -- that's another matter. But that's also normal. It takes an iron will to have never experienced a wavering of resolve. A moment of weakness.

_"I'm talking to you."_

That imaginary voice isn't sounding so carefree anymore. An undercurrent of menace carries the words from the motion of Deb's lips to his unbelieving ears, his brain dutifully reporting sound waves striking his eardrums. Brian tries to maintain a deadpan expression as she leans over the table between them, blocking his view of Dexter.

"You okay?" Dexter sounds slightly concerned.

"Little tired." Brian can feel his face threatening to betray him. Blood runs down the hilt of the knife, landing on the table with a barely audible plop.

 _"And if you want to live? To kill and kill again?"_ Deb sounds like she's winding up a classic head of steam, ready to unload a full volley of her finest obscenities. _"You need to start taking advice from me. Not your precious brother -- fine as he is to look at."_

"I think I should be taking vitamins." Brian ignores her outstretched wiggling tongue, the involuntary clenching of his entire pelvic floor. His pulse throbs in his temple, the disquieting fears of aneurysms a growing tidal wave that refuses to recede.

 _"And as for that little bitch of yours?"_ The epithet is shocking enough, delivered with unspeakable venom. Deb's fingers are hooked into claws, teeth bared like she's ready to tear him apart and feast upon his flesh. _"You need to put a leash on her. Before --"_

"Did you save me any?"

"Of course I did." Brian can't help sounding relieved as he rises from his chair, passing through phantom Deb without a moment's qualm or hesitation. The cold fury on her face is enough to make his stomach sink to the soles of his feet and keep right on going. He ignores the tingling in his palms, pasting on a greeting smile.

Astor leans over the pot with her usual air of accustomed skepticism. "What is it?"

"Cream of chicken." Brian's already bustling through the cabinet, finding her a bowl. "I got one of those rotisserie chickens. And Dexter did the rest."

Astor dishes herself up a full bowl and digs in with gusto. Deb's eyes are ablaze as the young girl stands there wolfing down her food.

"Sit --" Brian clears his throat. There's a quiver in his voice. Dexter looks over with a frown.

"Sit at the table, please?" Brian manages a nod, graciously ignoring Astor's glare of rebellion. "We're not savages."

Astor obeys, redirecting the glare to Dexter.

 _"How sweet."_ A sneer from Deb that drips with honeyed sarcasm. _"You've certainly got her wrapped around your --"_

"So how was the movie?" Brian sets to his minimal cleanup. He reaches for one of the knives on the counter before pulling back, casting his eye about for alternatives. 

"Not bad." Her review concluded, Astor returns to her soupbowl. Brian chooses not to press further. He's pretty sure Dexter can pick up the slack.

"But you really need to talk to the neighborhood watch." Astor pauses to get another mouthful down. "Because I've got someone following me around."

"Oh?" Brian finds himself baffled. Except for the fact that he's finally detected a reaction from Dexter. The barest flicker of interest.

"Some lady. Last night and this morning." Astor shakes her head. "Sounds like she ran away from some cult."

"What did she look like?" Dexter asks.

Brian doesn't blink. He'd been about to ask that very question. Still, it's odd Dexter would beat him to it.

"Not too old." Astor shrugs, supremely indifferent. "Dark hair. Dressed all pretty, sounded kind of tough. Or like she was trying to be."

Dexter looks like he's covering up a cough.

"And she had some kind of ID." Astor lets out a brief scoff. "Said she was a social worker." 

Brian swears he can smell his already overloaded brain beginning to emit tendrils of smoke. Because if his brother's reaction wasn't fascinating enough, the look on Deb's nonexistent face is enough to seize his own bowels in a grip of terror, instantly curdling the contents within.

"And what did she say?" Dexter stares at Astor. From Brian's perspective, he appears to be looking right through a nude and blood-soaked Deb.

"Like I wrote it down." But Astor appears increasingly disturbed by Dexter's close attention. "Some creepy gypsy crap, or something. All _I know who you are_."

Dexter blinks. It's just a blink. But it says a dozen mouthfuls.

In that moment, Brian realizes two things.

He's not crazy.

And he badly needs to go for another swim.

To cool down.

  


* * *

  


"That was weird."

Astor frowns in confusion at Brian's hasty departure. I have to admit I'm at a loss. I glance over at Harry, who's standing in his now usual spot behind and to Astor's left.

 _"Don't look at me."_ Harry looks equally stymied. _"I'm still figuring out what to believe."_

"So what happened at the shop?" I try not to sound too eager. If I've learned anything in my short time here, it's that anything is possible. And that all my expectations will usually be subverted. 

Astor doesn't respond. Not with words, anyway. But her look away, the nervous motion of her hand as she pushes back a stray hair that worked itself loose from her ponytail, tells me one thing.

There's a story to be told.

  


* * *

  


_Previously_

It's still early enough that the crowds are slim. Astor spends a little time in the lobby, just to watch people. Imagine their possibilities of their lives; maybe measure them for a slab, where she can write her own happy ending. Today her thoughts aren't quite as bloody. Although the day's not over yet.

She buys a medium popcorn and a ticket for _Brave_ , gets it torn in half and then makes her way up the darkened hall with its little rows of posters, the spooky lights that cast a row of oblong shadows. The theater she wants is just past the one she's actually supposed to be in, but it doesn't matter. Ushers aren't paid enough to give a shit.

As she makes her way to the center, the house lights just starting to dim, Astor looks around and realizes the entire place is deserted. She's literally the only person in here. An unlikely event, but there it is. It makes her feel like a queen as she nestles into her seat, ready for action.

Even better, she ends up liking the movie so much that she stays for a second showing. Maybe it's bullshit, but it doesn't feel like it. The sweat, the desperation, the raw bone-crunching fury are intoxicating beyond belief. She soaks up every second, trying to commit each move to memory in the hope of her inadequate muscle being someday sufficient to the task. And she cringes at the bloody violence on display; has to sometimes force herself to watch, even knowing it's not real. After all, it can hardly compare to the things she's seen. Or done.

But she's here now. In a different kind of church, in the land of stories and make believe. And so she sits through the whole thing again; taking the time to read the subtitles, seeing through the fiction with new and improved vision, marveling nonetheless at the skill and tenacity on display, the fictional struggle for peace and justice against cruelty and overwhelming odds. Again she studies each knee and elbow, every guard and thrust, as if her life depends on engraving the knowledge into her very bones.

When she finally looks down at her watch, it's way past time to use the restroom. But when Astor emerges from the building a good fifteen minutes later, blinking and squinting under the long afternoon sun, there's still more than enough time to visit this so-called fortune teller before she has to catch the bus back home.

Assuming she feels like it. Not like anyone will know if she blows off this ridiculous plan. The only thing that keeps her on the path at this point, even more than curiosity, is sheer and simple stubbornness. More than anything else, she wants to shove her refusal down the throats of those who never dreamed she might actually defy their predictions.

Besides, she's already on the right side of town. It doesn't take long for the taxi to arrive, and the driver gives her a brief and skeptical once over before sighing and unlocking his passenger door. Astor's grateful that he doesn't try to make conversation past her destination. She tries to ignore the smell of vinyl and cheap sanitizer as they pull away from the curb.

Her eyes keep being drawn to the empty seat beside her, fueling the vision of Dexter's foster father sitting in it staring at her with dead eyes. It doesn't help that she knows what he looks like, from a picture Dexter showed her and Cody. That was years ago, when Dexter came to dinner one night. When he was first dating Mom.

She hadn't wanted to like him. Certainly never thought they could trust him, or should. And yet slowly, despite his awkward and often inexplicable behavior, she'd begun to warm to him.

She can't believe she was such a fool.

"You want I should stick around?" The driver sounds dubious as they come to a stop.

Astor rolls her eyes. It's not like the neighborhood is a bad one. They're practically on the corner of a main street, wedged into the tiny parking lot of an off-white house that looks like it's been converted to office space.

"It's fine." She runs her credit card -- Brian's, really; it only bears her name -- through the reader on her side of the glass, nodding to him as the cheap little printer spits out an ink-stained slip. "Thanks."

She doesn't want to go in there. If someone were to ask why, as recently as the previous day, it wouldn't even have qualified as bullshit. And there's a bait and tackle store not far around the corner, just a ways down the block. She'd much rather spend the rest of her big day out looking at hunting knives.

She disembarks with a shiver in her gut and the cab pulls away, leaving her staring up at the front door with its ornate brass knocker. Apart from the slightly older construction, just a typical rickety nondescript A-frame, like thousands of others across the state. She might as well be coming over to visit a friend. Except for the wooden ramp that runs from the front all the way around the side. Or the sign in the front yard, bearing the words _PSYCHIC READINGS_ in slightly chipped red paint.

Even before her mother's ghost appeared before her, turning everything upside down, Astor has to admit to feeling more than a token degree of curiosity. After all, it's clear that whatever's going on has Brian bewildered. And lately he's been more like outright stunned. As if Dexter really did come back from the dead.

The worn floorboards squeak beneath her sneakers. Astor makes her way up the ramp to the front, puts her hand on the knob and opens the door.

The front parlor is a tiny room that smells like licorice, with fading flowered wallpaper. Its furniture consists of an antique-looking fainting couch, a round table with a glass top, and two chairs with vintage leather cushions.

A brass cup with a lid and chain sits in the center of the table, a slight tinge of green visible along one of its clawed feet. From the smell, Astor thinks incense burner. There's another closed door on the far wall, presumably leading to the inner part of the house, with a simple brass plate that reads:

_PRIVATE_

She didn't hear a bell when she came in. And there aren't any obvious security cameras on display. Still, Astor's pretty sure it won't be long.

"Hi."

The figure that appears in the open doorway doesn't look like a pagan priestess. More like a soccer mom. With a factory job. 

"Be right with you," the woman continues, shutting the door behind her. It gives Astor a second to take everything in. 

Not like there's much there. The pale cream robes look elegant and stylish enough, the patterns clearly hand embroidered. Except instead of hanging on the body of her host, giving her an air of dignified and quiet authority, they're draped over the woman's arm.

"Just got out of the dryer." Lenore hangs the robes on a hook on the wall. She looks to be in her fifties, not much taller than Astor, with a rounded face and big in the hips. Her attire is the simple uniform of every working man and woman: Faded blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt only half tucked in, and a worn pair of sneakers. Her shoulder-length hair is a faint and fading red, the light blurring of freckles across her cheeks arguing against its coming out of a bottle.

"Anyone else with you?" Lenore's getting one of those looks on her face that Astor hates. When someone's about to be kind. Try to let you down easy.

"I don't need a reading." Astor tries not to sound nasty about it. "I just need to ask you a couple of questions."

Lenore's frown is growing deeper, more perplexed.

"I promise it won't take long." Astor runs through the line in her head one more time, to be sure she has the pronunciation right. "Did you ever work for someone named D'Hoffryn?"

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't this. Lenore's features have become a frozen mask, her stance and bodily posture shifted into full condition red.

"Don't you ever say that name inside these walls."

Lenore reaches behind. Under her shirt in one smooth motion, pulls out a compact black snubnose and aims the barrel directly at Astor, standing less than five feet away.

"Who are you?" All the warmth and hospitality on that formerly friendly face has vanished into the ether. Lenore's voice is liquid rocket fuel, raising virtual blisters. "What do you want from me?"

Astor can feel her eyes threaten to bug out. She's completely defenseless. And facing a crazy person with a gun.

"I just want to know --" She bites back the rest. Which with her smart mouth would have been something like _are you completely fucking mental_. "Look. You really don't need to --"

A sharp bark of laughter from Lenore. It sounds like the ultimate in cynicism.

"You're kidding, right?" Lenore stares her down with laser intensity, trying to discern all Astor's secrets through sheer force of will.

"No!" Astor focuses on breathing slowly. On not making any sudden moves. "Now can you please --"

"Shit." Lenore is looking worried again. "I mean -- not that I wouldn't be very flattered. To be considered. Um...I mean --"

She trails off, leaving them staring at each other. Astor thinks the silence is growing more confused than awkward. Either way, it's a real double-U tee eff.

"Okay." Lenore shakes her head in obvious frustration. "Okay. I'll put the gun away -- if you take off the little girl suit. Seriously, it's creeping me out."

"What --" Astor doesn't think this woman is asking her to strip. As to what's actually being said, she hasn't got even half a clue.

"I mean it." Lenore sounds like she's crossing the line into irritation. "Get rid of the damn disguise. Whatever, whoever you are, just -- show me your real face."

"It's not a disguise." Astor's bafflement is likewise giving way to stubborn intransigence. "This -- is me."

She's almost ready to pray. Maybe do something stupid. Make a move of some kind. Except the looming black hole is slowly being lowered from her line of sight. Lenore looks more confused than ever, no less full of trepidation.

"What the hell do you want from me?"

"Well -- two things." Astor dredges up the other key phrase Dexter had strove to hammer into her memory. "Are you a vengeance demon?"

Lenore's mouth drops open in a literal O of surprise. Her eyebrows rise, and then she laughs. Not long, and still cynical, but a sound of real humor.

"Now I know you're kidding." Lenore shakes her head, glancing down at the gun in her hand with a look of shrewd assessment. "If I was all that. You think I'd be running this chicken feed gig?"

"I have no idea," Astor replies. It's the gospel truth.

"Kid, I am strictly small beer." Lenore's sounding irritated again. "I've got a nice little spot down here at the fat end of the food pyramid. And I don't need anyone coming along and messing it up."

"Yeah?" Despite her recent seemingly supernatural experience, Astor's unable to resist. "How come you didn't know I was going to be here today? Or what I was going to ask you?"

"Because it doesn't work that way." Lenore resists the urge to snap back. "Try a real question."

Astor folds both arms over her chest, returning the grownup gaze with her equally intimidating stare. "So what can you do?"

"Well -- I'm no expert." Lenore's sarcasm is minimal. "But even I can tell you've got a spirit on you."

"You see a ghost." Astor sounds flat as the desert to her own ears. "Where?"

"Not outright. Not --" For the first time, Lenore seems somewhat hesitant. "Do you see anything?"

Astor just looks at her like she's a crazy woman.

"Look --" Lenore sighs, looking downright disturbed. "This really isn't my line. So if you don't want a reading, just -- take your spook and skedaddle. Go home. Watch -- cartoons, or something."

Astor has to laugh out loud at that. It's the kind that threatens to turn into a sob.

"Hey --" Lenore's confusion returns, on top of more concern. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean --"

"Whatever." Astor can feel her defenses slam up again. Back in cold shutdown, completely closed off from the world.

But this bitch is telling her that _something_ is attached to her? Following her around? Did Dexter talk to her beforehand, to set up the scam?

And she doesn't see how the hell they could have pulled off the illusion of her mother. Astor's seen all kinds of dead people brought back to life by Hollywood magic, for commercials and even movies. But even holograms don't look that good. Not when they're not onscreen. Not being projected right in front of your face.

She quashes the flicker of worry, putting on her best brave look. "How much for a reading?"

Lenore remains guarded, openly cautious. "There's no children's discount."

Astor pulls the lanyard from her shirt, holding it up to display the credit card behind the protective plastic. Lenore doesn't bat an eye as she nods.

"Have a seat."

Astor glances at the ugly hunk of wood and metal in her host's hand. "Are you going to put that away?"

Lenore hesitates before tucking the gun into her waistband, pulling her shirt down to cover it. She walks over and sits down at the table.

Astor does the same, with a skeptical frown. "No cards?"

Lenore just smirks, as if such things are strictly for amateurs. She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a little box made of silver metal that looks like a hinged seashell. Popping the lid results in a strong mix of scents, the sight of multiple rows of cones in a variety of colors. Lenore holds it out before her, like an offering of Halloween candy. 

Astor looks up, gauging the expression on the woman's face. "Pick one?"

Lenore nods.

Astor can't let go of her suspicions. Not easily, not at all. She stares down at the rows of incense. Her fingers flex and ripple, pausing as they hover over their targets.

"Can I shut my eyes?"

"No." Lenore doesn't sound mean, or unkind. Still, it makes Astor grit her teeth as she hesitates once more.

She stares a moment longer before taking a deep breath and reaching out. Only at the last second does her momentum alter its course.

Astor lifts the top of the brass burner, placing the purple cone in the middle of the existing heap of ashes. Then she raises a defiant eyebrow, staring down Lenore with all the intimidation she can muster. Silently demanding some kind of answer.

Lenore doesn't look away as she reaches out with a lighter. It takes her three tries to go from spark to actual fire. Astor frowns, watching the flame tremble as it comes into full contact.

"You're a killer."

Another one of those queer thrills rears its head, coiling deep inside. Astor watches in silence as Lenore pulls her hand away from the burner. A tendril of smoke begins to rise, winding through the air, leaving a slow and fading trail.

"But you could be so much more." Despite her age and authority, her larger physical presence and even the gun close at hand, Lenore seems genuinely afraid. "You'll have to be."

Astor feels like she's standing on the edge of a cliff. No safety rail, no rope and harness. Just her and a thousand foot drop.

"What --" She can barely draw breath. A giant has hold of her chest, giving a squeeze as he stares down at her with a mocking grin. Astor manages a quick inhalation. Then another, as she strives to give some coherence to her whirling and chaotic thought.

"What do I have to be?"

She can see the struggle on Lenore's face. It's a look she remembers well. The look of Mom, and her superior knowledge. Except that knowing all these things Astor didn't, never seemed to make Mom happy. Quite the opposite.

Lenore presses her lips together. Holds a fist against her lips momentarily, like the statue of the thinker; looks down and away, and back at Astor. Her fist comes gently down upon the table, and she lets out a heavy sigh.

"A Slayer."

Astor swears she can hear the uppercase. She stares in utter confusion, unable to fathom how at all to proceed.

Lenore gathers her courage along with her dignity as she stands, the firm look on her face bearing no little degree of apprehension.

"I'd like you to leave now."

Astor continues to stare. Finally she slowly stands, watching for any sudden movement. Lenore remains at a safe distance as she nods toward the door.

"And not come back."

  


* * *

  


I'm excited.

The last time I felt this excited was a few scant days ago. Right before I plunged a borrowed knife into the chest of a defenseless man and complete stranger. Because my brother told me to.

I still don't know if that man truly deserved to die. But I don't plan on succumbing to the Passenger again. Not on Brian's say so. Of course, I have no intention of telling him.

I need to pretend to be eager in order to draw him out. Until he lets down his guard, trying to discern the truth is a lost cause. Unless I can find accurate alternate sources.

"And you're positive she said Slayer?" I stress the uppercase. "With a capital S?"

 _"Maybe?"_ Harry's looking frustrated again.

We're alone, out on the darkened patio. My shadow is cast on the stone by the light from the house. Harry's form is barely visible in this light, more translucent than usual.

It hasn't taken long for him to corroborate Astor's version of events. That was the easy part. Convincing him that all of this shaky and circumstantial evidence really does add up to something? That's going to take some doing.

 _"I don't know about magic, son. But I know one thing."_ Harry's hands knot into fists, begging to be given use. _"Someone was trying to follow her home."_

"And?" I look at him closely. "Did you see who it was?"

Harry lets out a growl, his mouth twisting in an angry snarl. He seems downright offended. Like a farmer who just witnessed a cow giving birth to a two-headed calf.

_"Your dead wife."_

It's like a click inside my head. A perfectly shaped piece of machinery, sliding into its place and settling in, as though it were magnetized.

"Darla."

 _"What?"_ Harry's anger is tinged with confusion.

"Someone who looks exactly like Rita." I think for a moment. "Although you're right. It's still possible it could be her."

 _"You mean as a vampire?"_ Harry's disappointment in me is evident. _"And the man with her too, I suppose?"_

That's a new wrinkle. "Who?"

 _"Didn't recognize him."_ Harry shakes his head. _"Big. I'd say he was muscle."_

"She's a vampire," I point out. "She doesn't need muscle."

Harry shakes his head. _"Just because I saw them out after dark --"_

"Dad?"

I wasn't trying to shut him up, but it works. Harry seems more than a little surprised by my use of the word.

"If I had come to you in the hospital, and told you that you were going to become a ghost after you died." I focus on him with my sternest no-nonsense gaze. "How would you have reacted?"

Harry opens his mouth. Then he shuts it again, looking more troubled than ever.

"I'm not saying you should believe everything I do." I spread my hands, in a gesture of peace. "Just allow for the possibility that I might know what I'm talking about."

 _"I can try."_ Harry shakes his head again. _"But I'm telling you, Dex. That girl is one twitch away from --"_

A piercing scream hits my ears. From a very familiar voice.

It's Astor.

  


* * *

  


Today's been way too much excitement. And far too much of the unknown. Astor likes predictability. Structure and order to keep the chaos at bay from her little corner of the world.

Dexter had listened carefully to her every word. As if everything depended on her accurate recollection and recitation of the day's craziness. Though he never looked away from her, not even once, Astor got the impression he was listening to someone else. Someone who kept interjecting their own commentary on her statements.

She can't get out of there fast enough, back to the privacy of her room. Her essay on the Thirty Years' War still needs a final polish, but it's the last thing she wants to be doing right now. The more crazy stuff keeps piling up in her life, the less she can think of anything else. Cryptic strangers accosting her on the street; Mom's ghost, telling Astor to find her. And the chilling, matter of fact pronouncement from a so-called psychic: _You're a killer._

She can feel it again. The rising urge to do violence, whether to herself or some obliging unfortunate. It matches the wind outside, a dull hum against her windowpanes.

A light tap reaches her ears. Astor frowns, trying to discern its origin.

The sound repeats, slightly louder. Then there's a motion in the darkness, just the other side of the window. A flash of something that disappears before it fully registers in her brain.

"This is bullshit." Astor can feel her heart thumping away, hear the shaking in her voice as she climbs into the window seat. Her fingers come to rest on the latch, brushing the cold glass.

She flips the latch to one side and gives the window a shove. Cool night air touches her skin, moist from the lake. They're on the second floor. And someone would need a ladder to --

"Hello."

Her heart freezes at the voice alone. As she looks down and sees her dead mother, clad in billowing diaphanous white; clinging by her elegant red fingernails to the sheer stone wall, smiling up at Astor with a look of fiendish yet playful innocence.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie Astor sees instead of BRAVE is THE RAID, starring Iko Uwais.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything changes. Original Universe Dana ghosts Deb and feels appropriately guilty. Men drinking and talking. A little more insight. Original Universe Quinn stays for dinner. Ghost Harry: Mind blown. Astor begins to feel slightly torn. And Lumen tries out a new trick from an old enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From me to you. As always: Share, and enjoy.
> 
> * * *

"M--"

That's where it cuts off. Astor feels as though she's regressed to infancy, unable to emit more than wordless babble. Her fingers clutch at both sides of the window, her rising pulse pounding in her eyeballs as the world wobbles and sways.

She manages the same sound again. Right as she registers the actual presence of the woman who is very much physically _there_ , barely two feet away, visibly clinging to the wall of the house. Staring up at Astor with a delighted grin, raw and unspeakable hunger in those oh so familiar eyes.

"That's right." The smile seems to shift. The woman's face melting, blurring; transforming into a savage beast given human form. "Your mama can't save you."

Astor's already bugging eyes are threatening to pop right out of her skull. Her throat is closing up, even as her jaw drops open to a degree that feels truly ridiculous. Her grip feels numb as she struggles to keep from tipping forward and falling out the window.

Except the monstrous vision hesitates. A flicker of confusion ripples across that hideously deformed visage. And through the paralysis of sheer panic, Astor almost thinks she can see something else blossoming deep within those slitted yellow cat's eyes. Something like comprehension.

Is it recognition?

Astor inhales deep, as the world tilts. Grabs on to the sides of the window with all her might.

And screams her bloody head off.

  


* * *

  


He floats upon the water, in total isolation. All the lights are off. Apart from the moon, the twinkle of stars through the windows, the darkness is near complete. Just him and his thoughts.

At least the nightmare vision of Deb hasn't reared its pretty head again. Brian can't imagine how he's going to deal with another appearance. Not when he has no idea if it's real or in his head. And he still can't believe he's even considering the former. Of course, it depends how you define _real_.

Brian has always preferred the Philip K. Dick model. Which for an acid-dropping schizophrenic is actually pretty lucid, not to mention a very effective and practical way to approach life. To wit: Reality is whatever doesn't go away when you don't believe in it.

It's possible that someone is faking all of this. Drugs, or sophisticated special effects. Maybe both. Except the notion doesn't begin to strike him as credible. Certainly not to the point where it seems worthwhile to run a tox screen on himself.

But the alternative seems far worse. Even the vague possibility of any form of life after death is enough to seize his entire being with unadulterated terror on an existential level.

He floats on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The breath in his chest is something he can feel. But the water literally drowns out the sound.

He sits up with a gasp. Paddles quickly to the side of the pool and grabs on, trying to catch his breath. Clings to the cement tiles, pulling in air til it feels like his chest is ready to pop.

Nothing but the subtle susurration of moving water. The faint hum of machinery, in the hot tub next to the pool.

And then a scream.

He's heard Astor cry out before. She's yelled at him plenty of times. But never has Brian heard this kind of sheer unrestrained and outright terror.

He scrambles from the pool, clumsy in his haste, crying out as his shin scrapes the tile. The pain is almost unnoticeable as he staggers dripping toward the door, fighting past the limp, forcing himself on to greater speed. 

He can hear someone else's feet treading quick and heavy. Brian stumbles down the hall and into the kitchen a scant moment before Dexter comes charging through the other doorway, headed straight for the counter. Whatever he might have thought to say freezes on his lips. Dexter is reaching up for the utensils that hang on a row of hooks over the counter, grabbing and yanking free a long wooden salad spoon, hand-carved in Africa.

His brother doesn't hesitate one second, turning and bolting in the opposite direction. Brian is already following, leaving a trail of soggy footprints behind on the carpet leading down the hall to Astor's room.

He catches up to Dexter as they round the corner. Without a word, they hit the door together. Smash it open with the full weight of their bodies.

The bedroom is nearly as big as Brian's, with multiple window seats that give a nice view of the lake. Astor is clinging to the side wall of one of the seats, shrinking back from the window as far as she can without falling on the floor. Her wild-eyed stare is fixed on a phantom figure that seems to float in the air outside, surrounded by a flowing mass of what look like bridal veils drifting in the breeze.

Brian's ready to grab the nearest heavy object and lunge at the intruder. Lay into their skull, split their face right open.

Except he knows that face. Despite the twisted and demonic appearance that has to be makeup, the pronounced ridges over the brow. The yellow slitted eyes that practically glow with mirth and malice.

The gleam of fangs, as that dainty mouth yawns wide.

In that moment of hesitation, Brian locks up. Every muscle is paralyzed, as though his spine has been snapped in half. But his brain continues to grind away, a rusted engine slowly gaining momentum as the debris of long years begins to shake loose.

The world continues to spin around him. For a timeless moment, its pace is in perfect sync with the glacial speed of his own thoughts.

Dexter advances, the spoon upraised in his right hand. His normally friendly face is a cold mask of murderous intent. Judging by the look on Rita's face, she doesn't care for the one on his.

Except Brian thinks there's something missing from her expression. Almost like she doesn't recognize the man coming at her. Considers him a minor annoyance, to be swatted away.

But Dexter is moving faster than any of them realized. He's almost to the window. And all Brian can do is stand there gaping, like a child seeing his first magician.

"Move!"

The new voice is male, its shout accompanied by another shriek from Astor. The floating apparition of Rita disappears abruptly from view, as if pulled down toward the ground by an invisible hand. The last expression on her face is a look of surprise and outrage.

Dexter comes to a halt at the window, craning his neck in an attempt to peer outside. The hulking figure now climbing into view is large, physically impressive even mostly covered by a fine tailored suit. The man is clean shaven with close cropped dark brown hair, his eyes blue slivers of ice.

"Well, well." A disdainful sneer ripples across his upper lip at the sight of the spoon in Dexter's upraised hand. "What do we have here?"

The man's face morphs like Rita's before settling into a similar grotesque reconfiguration. A savage beast shoved inside a human skin, distorting it like an overstuffed beanbag.

"Some Van Helsing wanna be?" The man's chuckle promises a fate worse than death. "Come at me, bro."

Dexter remains poised, balanced on the edge of motion. Astor is pressed so hard into the wall, Brian thinks it's a miracle she hasn't gone through it. The empty fingers of her right hand twitch against the marble, as if clutching at some invisible weapon.

"Well? Come on, pretty boy." The stranger grins, exposing elongated teeth. His grip on the overhang remains solid, his fancy dress shoes resting firmly on the edge of the windowsill. "What are you waiting for?"

A chuckle fills the air, from deep within Dexter's chest.

"Cole?"

The man pauses, looking as surprised as Brian. Because Dexter sounds like it's not a question.

Like he knows exactly who this man is.

"Why don't you come inside."

A fresh scream from Astor fills the room. As does the stranger, a blur of motion flying through the window with a roar, slamming into Dexter like a battering ram. Grabbing his hands, forcing him stumbling backward.

Something snaps in Brian's head.

He takes two steps left as the struggling figures stagger past him, locked in combat. His fingers come to rest on top of Astor's desk, finding the knife that always sits there by her study lamp.

He doesn't stop to think as he snaps it open. Brian lunges forward, ready to strike.

"Nice try." Cole's left hand wraps around Brian's windpipe, keeping his attacker at arm's length, his right likwise continuing to hold Dexter at bay. Brian flails madly in that iron grasp. But those long arms with their superior strength have the advantage.

The knife dangles from his nerveless fingers. Then slips away, landing silent on thick plush carpet.

Dexter's whole body is vibrating with effort. His arms strain against Cole, breath hissing between his teeth like a boiler ready to burst. But for all he tries to force his makeshift weapon downward, his efforts are failing to gain even the smallest ground.

"I don't know you." Cole smiles with obvious relish. His beefy fingers bear down, bringing mutual gasps of pain from his victims. "But inviting me in is gonna be the last mistake you ever --"

The scream that erupts from him makes Astor sound like a spoiled child.

Brian drives his knee into Cole's side, over and over, struggling to hold him in place. Astor has grabbed on from behind and is riding their attacker's leg like a bucking bronco, holding on for dear life as blood sprays from her fist where it presses into the back of his calf. Little grunts and cries are being forced from her throat, every muscle in her arms standing out like thin steel cables as she tries to maintain her grip, wrenching the knife back and forth inside the rapidly gushing wound.

Cole staggers, balanced precariously on his free leg. Brian's heel connects with his kneecap, bringing a fresh roar of agony and sending him down to his knees. He throws his head back with a howl, whipping it back and forth and striving to free himself. Under those grotesquely sculpted features, the animalistic appearance twisted in a mask of hunger and rage, Brian thinks the man simply looks quite baffled. Maybe more than a little surprised.

That's when Dexter ducks. Slips in under those grasping arms, holding the spoon in his left hand like a cop holds a flashlight, one forearm over his chest. The heel of his right hand braces it from behind, firmly holding onto the ladle.

The handle's end is dull. But it's definitely got a point. Which Dexter's driving blow sends through at least three layers of expensive fabric before sinking it deep into the pectoral muscle, nearly all the way to the ladle.

Cole stiffens. The scream instantly comes to a halt inside his throat. For a moment, it sounds like he's choking on something.

Then Brian's sitting on the floor. Astor lets out a startled and incoherent yell, scrambling backward, scooting away on bloody hands from the puddles of red soaking into her light desert shade carpet.

A fine ash seems to be descending from the air. The blades of the ceiling fan rotate high above, moving the dust in gentle swirls. Brian covers his mouth and nose, watching it settle and dissipate. Astor is breathing heavily, staring at the darkening stains on her carpet.

Brian's about to say something when Dexter walks past them, climbs into the window seat and peers outside. He and Astor continue to stare in a state of silent shock. Dexter scans the yard, careful not to place any part of himself across the boundary of the frame.

Finally he shakes his head, and pulls the window shut.

"She's gone."

Brian's heart still thuds like a jackhammer inside his ribcage. Astor keeps looking back and forth, between him and Dexter and the knife in her hand. Like she's trying not to be sick all over the carpet.

But as weird as things are getting? It feels, too, like everything is starting -- at least in part -- to make some twisted sort of sense.

Brian can see he's not alone in this conclusion. And normally he'd celebrate that look of dawning comprehension on Astor's face. But this is the first time since Dexter's return that Brian's felt even a glimmer of understanding, even the potential to understand. He's been increasingly lost at sea. Growing more resentful of Dexter, for not being fully open with them. Which in all fairness is a tad ironic.

But it can't be helped. Not when he can clearly see, from every bit of Astor's body language and microexpression, exactly what he thought would be far in the future. If ever.

However tentative? They're forming a bond.

One that excludes him.

  


* * *

  


_Original Universe_

Dana's finally starting to feel warm. This far north of the border, the default setting is permanent snow. She crossed over last week in the dead of night with a forged passport burning a hole in her pocket. In the unlikely event she got caught, the fake papers would keep her from having to spill too much blood. At least that was the idea.

She shouldn't even be carrying a phone. But things aren't quite bad enough yet to justify going fully dark. So she keeps it in airplane mode, only checking in once a day for a five minute window. And last time she heard from the New Watcher's Council, it still sounds like it's better for her to be out here in the world. Away from her adopted home.

She belongs out here anyway. She's the only one persistent enough to follow Dexter's trail. Ruthless enough to do whatever might need to be done. 

The heat from the fire is barely enough to penetrate her thin silk gloves. The rest of her is decked out in full winter camo, stolen two days ago from a northern Manitoba military base. Now she's deep into Nunavut, all remaining traces of the white man few and far between. Even civilization itself.

Not to say she hasn't seen people. But the speed and stealth of the Slayer keep her from being seen in turn. And with the shared consciousness of all her sisters, past and present, Dana has generations of wisdom to draw on from every corner of the planet. It's been a while since the last Inuit girl was Called, but Uki's memories are as clear as day. The battle with the Wendigo had ended with her torn nearly in half. But for the next hundred years, her people had lived in peace and safety.

She's thinking of wearing antlers on her head. If anyone sees her, they'll think she's the Wendigo. Conflict avoidance is good.

Speaking of.

Dana digs deep in her pocket, pulling out the vibrating piece of glass and plastic. Its screen glows with a familiar name that pulses over a pair of circles. One red, the other green.

It's not like she's been avoiding Deb's calls. More like she doesn't know what to say. All those accumulated years of vicarious living through others, and Dana still can't come up with a single damn word of helpful advice. Mostly, it's just a surprise she can still get any signal at all out here.

It wouldn't be so bad if she was just giving advice to a friend. But out of all the thousands of souls that take up space in her mind, one in particular had gone and gotten herself involved with Dexter's sister. Dana's impatience had led her to blab Faith's secrets, hoping to force the new girlfriend issues out into the open. But instead of starting a conversation, Faith had clammed up and gone into lockdown. Incommunicado, as far as Deb's been concerned.

Their mystical connection means that Dana knows everything Faith wishes she was brave enough to say. But it doesn't help. Only makes things worse. 

Dana swipes the red circle, unable to suppress a twinge of guilt. Even as she can't help a surge of anger. At destiny, for robbing her of nearly every scrap of autonomy. At Faith, for being so fucking mule headed.

Assuming she doesn't die out here? She'll give Deb a call. As soon as she's back in the States. Unless she gets shot, trying to cross over the border.

As long as she thinks she can handle it.

If she can just be herself.

  


* * *

  


"Oh, no." Doakes is shaking his head. "What did I say about --"

"James." Angel doesn't sound dramatic. Just a bro, putting it out there. "I'm serious. Have a drink with me."

The joint he's chosen is one of the slightly more upscale ones favored by cops who drink on a budget. A television over the bar is perpetually tuned to the sports channel, while the decor goes out of its way to demonstrate independence and the lack of corporate franchising. The crowning touch is likely the row of jars that line the bar, chock full of pickled eggs and onions ripe for the taking. Any place that isn't on wheels and still thumbs its nose at the health department definitely has Angel's seal of approval.

They're standing by the register as Doakes glares left. Vince is sitting at the bar, ignoring his colleagues and gazing into the amber liquid depths of a thick glass tumbler.

Doakes lets out an amused snort. "You asking me out?"

"I'm saying, _pendejo_ \-- one drink. For Deb." Angel gives the other man a piercing look. "No bullshit."

Doakes doesn't quite dial back the derision. "Thought the geek was your boozing buddy." 

"I'm an equal opportunity alcoholist." Angel nods at the empty pair of seats by Vince. "Come on. Show me what a real man drinks."

Doakes remains standing. But Angel sees a real smile, if short-lived.

"Scotch and soda," Angel instructs the bartender. "Plus his."

Doakes bristles with irritation. "I can pay my own way."

"When was the last time you went to a party?" Vince turns his head, looking curious. "I'm guessing eighties. You've got that Miami Vice look going on."

The bartender stands silent, awaiting their request. A sandy-haired college boy in an ill-fitting tux, he appears to have infinite patience for old guy banter.

"Scotch and water." Doakes directs his glare at the bartender, promising pain beyond a lack of tips. "No water."

"No imagination," Vince comments.

"Yeah?" Doakes peers down his nose at the glass in Vince's hand. "What's your pleasure, smartass?"

"Japanese whiskey." Vince tosses off a salute to his companions. "Better than I expected, actually. I just had to try it."

Doakes rolls his eyes, fishing out his wallet. The bartender sets their drinks before them, counting out change before making himself scarce.

"To Debra Morgan." Angel raises his glass, looking in turn at each of his companions to impress upon them the magnitude of his feeling. "Never forget."

"Fuckin' aye." Vince taps his own glass into the circle.

Doakes joins with a silent nod. Angel and Vince throw back nearly half the contents of their respective glasses, while Doakes takes a cautious sip that turns into a larger one.

"That notion of yours," Angel interjects. "Anything pan out?"

"Maybe." Doakes pauses to roll the liquor around on his tongue. A smile flashes briefly, past the perpetual scowl. "Ever hear the name Jordan Chase?"

"Self help guy?" Vince nods. "I went to a couple lectures."

"Color me surprised," Doakes mutters. His bright eyes are razor sharp. "When?" 

"Last year. Nothing special." Vince shrugs. "Didn't he kind of fall off the radar?"

"More like disappeared. Off the face of the fucking earth." Doakes looks around, keeping his voice low. "Of course, we all know that's not possible."

"Even the cartel leave something behind." Angel gives an appreciative inhale, sniffing the vapors from his glass. "Just gotta track down the right barrel."

Vince is looking more interested. "When did Chase turn up missing?"

"Report was never filed," Doakes says. "Organization folded, closed up shop -- IRS and Florida Revenue came down to fight over the carcass. Homicide didn't get so much as a whiff."

"Until you started digging." Angel nods with approval. "Better watch your ass."

"Oh, you don't need to tell me." Doakes takes another long sip, giving a grunt that sounds decidedly pleased. "But guess who else it turns out went missing, right around then? Cole Harmon. Head of security for --"

"Jordan Chase." Vince is looking troubled. "Guy almost tackled me when I tried to get a picture."

Angel frowns. "I don't remember hearing anything about this."

"Revenue kept most of it down low," Doakes says. "Not too many stories. No comment, investigation still ongoing."

"They're not big on sharing." Vince sounds thoughtful, narrowing his eyes in thought.

"So I cross reference all missing persons citywide. Thirty day window, same time period." Doakes waves his left hand in the air, sketching out an erratic boundary. "Specifically, white males in their mid to late thirties. Most of them -- bupkis."

He reaches into his jacket. Angel watches as Doakes pulls out a photo, sliding it across the bar.

"And then there's this guy."

Angel studies the man in the picture. Try as he might, he finds himself unable to fathom the significance of this weaselly little rat-faced -- not _maricon_ , precisely. Or out and out _basura_. But the more he looks, the more he feels that prickle of instinctive hostility.

"Okay." He looks over at Vince, who likewise shakes his head. "So who the hell is Boyd Fowler?"

"You tell me." Doakes shrugs, equally mystified. "Sanitation guy -- dead animal pickup. But according to one of his co-workers?"

Doakes reaches into his pocket again. Producing a compact disc in a jewel case, handing it to Angel.

"Big fan."

The front of the case bears the title of _JORDAN CHASE LIFE SECRETS_ , with this installment being _VOLUME FOUR: UNLOCKING POTENTIAL_. The smiling picture of Chase is somewhat understated, taking up less than a quarter of the back cover.

"Found that in his locker at work." Doakes pulls out another photograph, a fuzzy black and white. "Remember when I said I guarantee there's a woman in this? Nobody ever saw this guy dating from high school on. Loner his entire adult life. Probably voted most likely candidate for a blow up doll."

He shoots a glare at Vince, who doesn't rise to the bait.

"And there he is. Wearing some goddamn goth supermodel on his arm." Doakes slides over the photo, his face contorted in wondrous anger. "Like he's Johnny fucking Depp."

Angel squints at the picture as Vince leans in to get a better look. They both recognize the nightclub; have been there before on plenty of misspent occasions. The people milling around the bar look like any other crowd. Just another batch of young and hopeful, on the prowl, and looking for love.

Boyd stands at the bar, facing out into the crowd. Even with the low resolution his expression is studious, tense with anticipation. But it's his companion who commands their attention. With her pale skin and elaborately coiffed hair, the woman would be striking no matter what her attire. Even there she stands out in her vintage evening gown whose elaborate lacing only further accentuates her delicate figure. She seems to be scanning the crowd for a friend, in hopes of seeing a familiar face.

In contrast, Boyd leaves no doubt in the viewer's mind regarding his intent or purpose. His partner is a lioness, basking in the security that she's queen of all she surveys. And Boyd's the hyena. A pathetic opportunist, working in concert with a far deadlier predator.

Angel looks up from the photo. "When was this?"

"Three months after Chase's last public appearance." Doakes meets Angel's gaze squarely, his own look fraught with meaning. "Checked the roster. Harmon too."

Angel's thoughts are in an uproar. He looks back at the photograph, tapping the bottom of his glass against the surface of the bar. The taste of single malt is sour on his tongue, in all the wrong ways.

"This is --" Angel knows how reluctant he sounds. "Good shit."

Doakes barely nods, wearing his customary scowl. "Not good enough."

Angel glances over to Vince, who shrugs. Great. Once again it's up to him to take the initiative.

"You got anything more solid?" With all his heart and soul, Angel prays for a miracle. "Anything at all?"

"Not without a warrant." The fatalistic humor from Doakes is only matched by his cynical smile. He runs a thumb over his pencil-thin mustache in a gesture of frank dismissal. "But I'd start with Fowler's house."

"All right." Angel lowers his voice to a more confidential level. "Can you write up anything that isn't bullshit?"

"You think bullshit is what gets rejected around here?" Doakes gives a contemptuous scoff and polishes off his scotch. For a moment he looks like he wants to drive the shotglass through the bar, reduce the whole thing to kindling and rubble. Then his thick fingers gently turn, rotating it upside down before setting it down with a clink.

"I'll look into your bullshit." Vince raises his glass and an eyebrow, tossing back the rest of his whiskey with a triumphant exhalation. "Long as you check out mine."

Doakes glares. "And what bullshit would that be?"

Vince looks highly reluctant. Like he knows just how much he's asking. He watches Doakes for a moment, carefully weighing the other man's mood.

"Bay Harbor Butcher." Vince sounds like he's apologizing. "That kind of bullshit."

Doakes cradles his forehead, briefly massaging his scalp before turning his weary gaze to the ceiling. "Why do I fucking bother?"

"James -- I know this man. If he thinks there's something going on? I think it's worth checking out." Angel doesn't look over to see how Vince is taking this endorsement. "I know I'd appreciate it. If nothing else -- just so we can move past this."

Doakes appears less reassured than he is resigned to his fate. "So what kind of steaming pile am I sticking my nose into?"

Vince's hesitation says it all. That is, until he opens his mouth.

"Rudy Cooper."

Angel's never seen those eyes look quite so big for any reason other than sheer rage. Doakes is most definitely, as they say, buggin'.

"You want to go after the department's biggest private donor?" Doakes leans in, voice dropping to an angry hiss. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"I didn't say it would be easy." Vince shrugs, raising one hand to signal another round. "I wouldn't blame anyone for keeping their distance on this."

Doakes doesn't speak. He just stares at the bar, drumming his fingers, as their drinks are poured and delivered. Angel's on the verge of speaking when James breaks the silence.

"Fine." Doakes grips his glass until Angel's afraid it will shatter in the man's grasp. Tendons ripple in his hand and forearm, his swollen bicep leaping about like a rat in a cobra's belly.

"But I do it my way. And any shit blows back?" Doakes extends the index finger of his left hand, pointing directly at Vince. "I'm using your ass for an umbrella."

Vince raises his glass with a smile. "Fair enough."

  


* * *

  


"You owe me."

"Oh?" Darla's mocking pun makes no attempt to conceal the extent of her irritation. "You got your pound of flesh. And then some."

A great deal of it stems from the fact that she despises their current lair with a passion. The abandoned industrial park may be safe, but its decor and atmosphere leave everything to be desired. Drusilla's appetites and indiscretions had forced them out of everywhere they'd occupied since crossing the Mason-Dixon line, leaving these dismal surroundings as the only workable option. She would have moved on long ago if it weren't for Dru's passion; the tantalizing half-formed prophecies that said this was the place. The day and the hour when the future of all demonkind in this hellforsaken realm would be decided.

It irritates Darla still more to know that her own instincts were right. Her own weakness had been the keystone that had led to the avalanche of Dru's demise. Her partner for over a century through thick and thin, through a series of greivous losses that would have caused most of her kind to stake themselves long ago. Or sit outside like the cowards they were, in waiting for the sun.

Lumen may be a finely tuned sadist. But like Dru's ill-advised William -- now dead to them at least three times over -- she does tend to be overwhelmed by her emotions. It greatly undermines her effectiveness as an immortal killer. Worse, it contributes just as strongly as Dru's insanity to their constantly having to find new homes and hunting grounds.

Darla had known from the start the two of them would clash. And she had turned Lumen anyway. For the same reasons as always: Because it was fun to exercise her deservedly legendary inventiveness and cruelty. It relieved the unending tedium of existence.

But now she's stuck with a lone unwanted partner. One she doesn't trust in any way whatsoever. And the feeling is more than mutual; Lumen's never been at all reluctant to express an opinion, no matter how contrary it might be to the hard-earned experience of those who came before. Without Dru around to serve as a distraction, Darla's sure it won't be long before Lumen moves directly against her. If she's managed to depose the queen, it's only a matter of time before she takes aim at the king.

Lumen looks around the otherwise unoccupied room. "Keeping her safe?"

"Rachel is out doing what your boy should have been." Darla glares from her spot at the desk. "Gathering intelligence."

The office they're in used to be an executive suite. Around here, that means it's less of a pigsty than the lower floors. The only way up is guarded by Dru's minions, a pack of werewolves they'd found squatting in the ruins. It had been a hard fought battle, but eventually every one of the mangy curs had been killed and turned, reduced to permanent savagery and thrown down the hole to fight over whatever scraps came their way. At this point they're ready and willing to tear apart even an undead body, should one be unlucky enough to fall into their claws.

Humans used to have taste, Darla thinks; class and style galore, in everything from gaudy clothes to elaborate furniture. Even allowing for the twisted nature of her vampiric perspective, she can't remember the last time she saw a human creation she would genuinely call _pretty_. The very metal in this place is flimsy and cheap, devoid of ornamentation. And almost everything else is made of plastic. Nothing more than children's blocks. Snapped together by infants, played with by toddlers.

Thinking about babies always makes her hungry.

"And what exactly did we learn?" Lumen's voice is deceptively calm, with only the slightest hint of a challenge. "What valuable information did we acquire?"

"A lot more than we knew last night." Darla sighs and rises from her chair, ignoring the subtle stiffening in the other woman's posture. It's beneath her to show fear. She respects Lumen as an adversary. But it remains to be seen how worthy a foe.

"At what cost?" Lumen isn't backing down. "You know what it took to train that one. You think I'll get that lucky again? Not in ten lifetimes."

"Forget the forest," Darla snaps. "You're not even seeing the trees. Wake up and smell the blood."

"I loaned you my boy." Lumen puts her emphasis on the final word. "And you lost him. Right down the drain."

"The last thing we need right now is another mouth to feed." Darla's not in a mood for banter. "Especially one that can't keep itself shut."

Lumen allows herself a smirk. "Sounds like victim blaming."

"I might have asked him to tag along. But I also told him to keep his distance, and I most certainly did not scream for him to come riding to my rescue. No -- he did that all on his own." Darla returns the smirk. "For all the good it did."

She can see the wheels in motion, anticipating Lumen's question before it's given voice.

"Who was it?"

"Just another human." Darla dismisses this trivial irrelevance with a shake of her head. "It's all right. We'll know more soon enough."

Lumen doesn't appear convinced. "You said they wouldn't know anything."

"No matter what that girl's protecters might know?" Darla's smile is smugly, supremely confident. "They haven't told her a damn thing."

Lumen scowls. "And how do you know?"

"Oh, you should have been there. When I showed my true face?" Darla shivers with remembered pleasure. "She screamed like a blinded toddler."

Lumen's back to looking like the world's oldest sullen teen. "I thought we wanted her on our side." 

"And she will be," Darla replies. "One step at a time."

Lumen turns and stares out the window. The lights of Miami are a fair distance from here, the nearest source of electricity a fueling station nearly a mile away. Even during the day, the only sight to be seen through that window is an overgrown parking lot full of weeds.

"How did you know where to find her?"

"You mean this quickly?" Darla's airy dismissal doesn't conceal her obvious contempt. "I've been keeping tabs on her for some time."

Lumen makes a strangled noise deep in her throat, looking appalled. "Fucking visions."

"Except you had to go and assassinate your rival," Darla continues with a sneer. "Who also happened to be our best source of information."

"Assuming you could find an interpreter." Lumen looks ready to elaborate, but refrains from further sarcasm. For the first time her stance appears less than perfectly ready, uncertainty now visible on her face.

"And now? Thanks to your petty little tantrum? We're reduced to scrabbling and scraping around on the _Internet_." Darla's loathing is clear by the look on her face, as though scraping something dead from her shoe. "If I wasn't bound and determined to outlive you out of sheer spite? I'd say, stake me now." 

Whatever Lumen was expecting, it wasn't this. "Why?"

Other than the source, Darla's not entirely sure why she doesn't care for the question. "What do you mean?"

"I mean -- why bother with any of this crap?" Lumen gives her a baffled look, as though it's totally obvious. "When we can just --"

"Another frat house?" Darla lets the sarcasm ring out. "You think just because Dru and her wackiness are out of the picture, you can run wild?"

"How's this for wild?" Lumen's smile is slow, increasingly ugly. "We could start a fire."

Darla blinks.

"In the nursery wing of the hospital." Lumen lifts one shoulder, tilting her head. Her bewildered expression grows more malevolent by the moment. "Such a tragedy. But no investigation. No bodies --"

She breaks off, looking confused. Darla's throwing her head back, her peals of laughter issuing long and loud.

"You know, for a modern woman?" Darla wears a look of outright pity. "You're a lot like Dru."

The comparison alone is enough to bring Lumen's hostility to the fore. Still, she doesn't interrupt.

"This is the information age." Darla sounds like she's instructing a wayward child. "And only politicians get away with mass murder. Especially children," she concludes, with a flicker of distaste.

"What about children?" Rachel pokes her head through the doorway, peering about the room. "Don't tell me you got some."

"No such luck." Darla beckons her inside. "What about you?"

"Not sure." Rachel walks up to the desk and sets down a slim manila folder. The desk is some of the only actual wood left in the entire building. It's why Darla makes a point of keeping it handy. That, and the fact that it doesn't look cheap.

Darla sits down and opens the folder, glancing at the other women. Though her servant's attire is superficially the same as Lumen's -- jeans, black leather jacket -- their appearance couldn't be more different. It's not just their hair, ranging from long and blonde to short and dark. Rachel had been a Crossfitter before she was turned, with far more strength than most would have guessed in her slight form. In contrast, Lumen looks like a little kid, wearing her big sister's clothes in a misguided attempt to look tough.

"Property records have the owner listed as Rudy Cooper." Rachel stands with both hands behind her back, her spine ramrod straight as Darla pages through the folder's contents. "Hospital website says he's top of the heap. Plastic surgeon, specializes in amputees."

"Intriguing." Darla frowns as she continues to skim through the data. "I thought the library declared you _persona non grata_."

Rachel curls her upper lip. "I made a new friend on the staff."

Darla chuckles. But the further she flips through the scant stack of paper, the more it's looking like they've blown a hole in one hell of a piñata. For such little actual information, it feels like a veritable cornucopia, spilling out like the guts of a slaughtered steer. She hasn't even noticed that Lumen has walked over to the desk, joining her in studying the papers.

She comes to a halt, staring in confusion. "Something's not right."

Rachel frowns. "What do you mean?"

Darla holds up the printout. A black and white mug shot, pixellated by laser.

"This man is dead." She waggles the piece of paper in Lumen's direction, as though flaunting its existence. "So how, precisely, did he just put a spoon through your manservant?"

Lumen appears ready to make a smartass comment. She leans down, squinting at the photo before glancing up at Darla.

"Just another human?" Lumen's mocking smile is more openly impudent than ever.

Darla gazes back with perfect aplomb. "We'll see."

Lumen snorts. But at least for now, the rebellious reactionary appears to acquiesce.

"And what do you want from me?"

"Take a lesson from your elders," Darla flatly states. "And learn a little patience."

  


* * *

  


_Original Universe_

"Thanks again." Lumen does indeed look pretty refreshed compared to how they left her. The entire house is spotless and smells like pine. "Hope he wasn't too much trouble."

"You kidding?" Quinn kneels, holding up a blushing Cody's arm in a classic bodybuilder pose. "All I can do to keep up with this guy."

Astor looks up from the couch where she's reading, legs curled beneath her. 

"And don't you start." Quinn levels a warning finger. "You know that ain't fair."

Astor smirks and returns to her book. From his spot on the floor, Harrison sits up and gazes at her, unadulterated worship in his adoring eyes.

"Sure you don't want to stay for dinner?" Lumen's got that hopeful expression again. "I could really use a little adult conversation."

"The kind that doesn't involve a couple eff words every other sentence?" Quinn gives her a lopsided smile.

"That too." Lumen already looks apologetic. "Not to sound desperate or anything --"

"Let me check in." Quinn digs out his phone.

Harrison rises and toddles over to the couch, wearing an expectant grin. He levels a chubby finger at his big sister.

"Goaty!"

"Cody's over there." Astor points in the proper direction, to no avail.

"She doesn't like it when he tries to say her name." Cody says this to Quinn under his breath, unable to hide a smile.

Dinner is salmon patties made from actual uncanned salmon. It's enough to impress Quinn, who says so.

"Hardly." Lumen shrugs this off, looking slightly uncomfortable. "It's not like I never knew how to cook. I just try to keep in practice."

"Well, you're talking to the world's most confirmed bachelor." Quinn raises his glass of lemonade in a salute. "Still -- my compliments to the chef."

"You're not supposed to put ketchup on it." Astor's rebuke doesn't sound entirely serious. Nonetheless, Cody sticks out his tongue.

"If it gets him to eat fish?" Lumen finishes loading the dishwasher, closing the door with a knowing look at Astor. "He can put blood on it, for all I care."

"Ew." Cody makes a face, wrinkling his nose.

Astor's laugh is brief, almost perfunctory. Quinn can't tell if her heart's really in it.

Teenagers, he thinks. When they're not wearing their emotions on their sleeve, they can be masters of concealment. Hide all kinds of things from their parents, or their best friends. Even themselves.

"Any luck with Dexter?" Quinn addresses this to Astor, an implicit acknowledgement of her authority. It's still hard for him to believe any of this. Most especially all the Slayer shit. But never let it be said that Joey Quinn ignored evidence when it was staring him in the face. Or lifting more plates than an Olympic medalist, without breaking a sweat.

Astor shakes her head, abruptly crestfallen.

"Not to bring up a sore subject." Quinn captures her gaze with his own, silently offering more apology than conveyed by his casual statement.

"I guess you need him pretty bad," Astor says. She doesn't sound arrogant. If anything, more hesitant.

"Won't deny he makes my job easier." Quinn sends a brief glance at Lumen, just enough for her to notice. "Most of the time."

"Likewise." Lumen sends a tiny smirk at Quinn as she kneels to rummage through the cabinet. She removes a small copper bottomed pot, holding it up for Astor's inspection. "Can I use this one?"

"Sure." Astor sounds a bit too casual. Quinn learns why a moment later when Lumen pulls a plastic blood bag from the fridge.

"I can't use that thing." Lumen nods, directing Quinn's gaze to the microwave on the counter. "Even low power, with constant supervision? Exploded red cells taste like crap."

"Better label that pan," Quinn suggests. "And you thought celiacs were bad."

"Fizzy!" Harrison grins, opening his mouth wide. A piece of salmon falls onto his plate and rolls onto the table.

"There you go again." Lumen finishes emptying her bag into the pan, striding over with a businesslike air. "Fishies go in the belly. Not on the table."

She sweeps up the stray morsel, giving Harrison a gentle tummy poke. It's enough to bring a squeal from her victim and a chuckle from Quinn. Might be a crazy one, but it's definitely a family.

Except Astor is looking unaccountably tense as Lumen leans over to take Cody's empty plate. Quinn does a perfect job of pretending not to notice. Not the tiny pause before Lumen stands back up; not the subtle way her nostrils briefly flare beforehand, or the quick and unnecessary intake of air as she stands over Cody.

The subtle relaxation from Astor, when her vampire stepmother turns and walks away.

"You want to go to the park again tomorrow?" As always, Quinn's smile is the perfect distraction. "Let Harry see his big brother put some mustard on it?"

Cody makes another face. "I don't like mustard."

  


* * *

  


I'm alone in the house.

It's only the second time I've been alone at all since arriving here. Brian and Astor have just left to drive out to his storage locker, which among other things holds cleaning supplies more suited to blood. It's also an obvious opportunity for them to have a private discussion. Without Dexter around. And they have a lot to discuss.

It helps that never once have I uttered the word _vampire_. Not before or since they saw me run a piece of wood through a man's chest, causing him to disappear in a puff of soot. I know I'd be rethinking a few things if I were in their shoes. I'm still surprised they left me unsupervised in their domain. But it shows how hard they've been hit with a metaphorical two by four, right between the eyes.

I wonder if they're multitasking. Scouting out potential victims, at the same time they try to unravel the mystery of Dexter Morgan. Either way, judging by the stunned look on Brian's face as they left, there's plenty more trouble to come. For all of us.

 _"You don't have to say it."_ Harry seems equally taken aback by this sudden revelation of supernatural reality. _"You were right."_

"Not about everything." I glance over at Astor's writing desk, noting her knife back in its proper place. Brian had taken the blade to the bathroom and washed it clean, returning it to her with a nearly imperceptible bow. Apart from the pile of wet towels on the carpet to cover up the stains, her room appears untouched by the chaos that ensued less than twenty minutes ago.

 _"And Rita? She's one of these --"_ Harry sounds offended at the notion.

"I don't know." I try to impress my own caution upon him. "It could be her. Or it might be Darla."

 _"And how did you know that man?"_ Fire burns in the plasma that makes up his phantasmal eyes. Harry's pacing silently around the room, full of pent-up nervous energy with no place to go. _"How many more of these things are out there?"_

"I don't know," I repeat. My shoulders are stiff and sore from the fight with Cole. I'm just lucky my gamble paid off. Even if Astor has yet to come into her full power, all of the basic instincts are there. And -- albeit with a little goading -- her bravery is beyond question. Overall, it was worth the risk.

 _"Vampires."_ Harry shakes his virtual head, clearly trying to wrap it around the concept. _"I can't believe we're having a serious conversation about vampires."_

"The woman Astor was talking about? Who's been following her around?" I knead and rotate my shoulder, watching Harry's reaction. "I'm betting she's a Slayer."

 _"What the hell does that mean?"_ Harry is beginning to look downright furious.

"You want the whole spiel?" I sit down at the desk, gazing up at him as I continue to manipulate my aching muscles. _"Into every generation, she is born."_

Harry stares at me, his mouth hanging open.

 _"One girl in all the world. A Chosen One,"_ I emphasize. _"She alone will have the strength, the skill. To stand against the vampires --"_

I raise the wooden spoon in my hand. His eyes are automatically drawn to my improvised stake.

 _"The demons,"_ I conclude. _"And the forces of darkness."_

Harry lifts his gaze from the spoon. A complex amalgamate of emotions reflect upon his face. He looks a lot like Deb when she was forced to confront the bizarre and deadly world I'd stumbled into. Bizarre to the extreme. And even more deadly.

"Like the song says." I hold up the spoon, once more capturing his visual attention. "You ain't seen nothing yet."

Harry shakes his head. Already I can see his imagination working overtime, bringing to life every childhood tale of terror.

"And the first thing I'd like to bring to your attention." I level the spoon at Harry. The end of the ladle comes to a stop, just barely inside his chest. "In my world?"

I pause for effect. I don't know why I've been doing that more lately.

"There's more than one Slayer."

  


* * *

  


A light drizzle is starting to fall as Brian pulls onto the street. Even with the top up, Astor would normally get at least some pleasure from riding in the convertible. Right now it's like her brain is melting inside her skull. Like her heart wants to explode out of her chest.

"Are you okay?" Brian keeps both eyes on the road, sounding just concerned enough.

"Define _okay_." Astor stares down at her hands, resting together in her lap, clutching each other for comfort.

It had taken less than a minute to wash the blood from her hands, to check in the mirror for incriminating stray spots of red. The face staring back seemed younger, frightened by everything around her. The T-shirt and overalls make her look even more like some dumb kid, but they were the first clean clothes within reach. She'd thrown them on and practically ran out the door, unable to bring herself to meet Dexter's gaze.

"So you weren't expecting that guy to disintegrate." Brian's brief glance in her direction is the only thing that makes it a question.

Astor shakes her head, silent.

"Didn't think so." Brian eases to a stop at the end of the block, patiently waiting for the cross traffic to clear.

"I swear." Her stomach keep trying to expel itself from her body. It reminds her of when Brian stabs a guy there, to make him last longer. "I have no idea what the hell is going on."

"I think you do. I mean -- I think we're starting to figure it out." Brian shakes his head. "Don't you?"

Astor doesn't want to. Doesn't want any part of this spooky new state of affairs. She especially doesn't want any part of Dexter. It makes it worse that she's even thinking about him in the first place.

But he's been a rock throughout the growing insanity. And while Brian isn't exactly crumbling, he's definitely showing enough signs of strain that Astor can feel it affecting her stability. It only feeds her rebellious nature, makes her want to go and threaten Dexter all over again. Except this time, instead of shutting up, she would make him talk. Force him to tell her every last thing he's been holding back, for whatever twisted reason.

"Thought you didn't want a taxi." Brian sounds perfectly casual, his eyes still focused on the road through slowly moving wipers. "I would have picked you up."

"You're spying on me?" It comes out harsher than Astor intended. But she can't help the flush of immediate anger, the sense of being untrusted.

"I just got the notification on my phone." Brian's explanation doesn't seem overly defensive. Certainly less so than Astor sounds to her own ears.

She's already trying to think of something to say, when she realizes she's too late. The silence is officially awkward.

She ends up maintaining it all the way to the storage locker. She sits in the car while Brian opens the lock and goes inside, wondering just how long she can hold out. It's a far cry from hardball tactics like negotiating for later bedtimes. She and Cody had been experts in that one. A real tag team.

The overhead dome comes on. Astor stares at her reflection in the glass as Brian slides a cardboard box into the back seat and climbs in, shutting the door. Darkness slowly descends, the dull flourescent glow from outside barely penetrating the car's interior.

A barely audible hum comes up through cushioned leather seats as Brian turns the key in the ignition. He looks over at Astor, his face illuminated by the pale green of the dashboard.

"I trust you." The lines in Brian's boyish face are noticeably deeper in this light. It makes him look like some sort of ancient child, undergoing premature aging. "It's all I can do."

Astor turns away, staring out the window.

"I know."

  


* * *

  


The parking lot of the Miami Metro Police Department isn't a bad one by any means. Still, it's almost without exception that upon reaching a sufficient salary, the higher ranking officers choose to move their vehicles to the top of the private ramp next door. Even the extra walk over to the main building is considered a mark of prestige.

Regarding any of these issues, Lumen Pierce has little to no clue. Nor does she care. All that matters to her is verifying the location of all the security cameras in the parking ramp, which takes about ten minutes. In a paradoxical twist, it turns out that the very top floor has fewer cameras than any of the floors beneath.

Also, the people who laid out the system never dreamed that someone would climb the outer wall of the building using only their bare hands. Lumen makes it to the top in under a minute, easily avoiding detection by the few mortals on the premises. She dusts off her hands, looking around at her options.

This time of night, there aren't many cars left. As a single woman with no kids, LaGuerta probably doesn't drive some kind of Mommymobile. And as far as a career-minded Lieutenant is concerned, Lumen's betting on black. As in the sporty little number across from the elevator. It's a foreign model, striking a nice compromise between obnoxious muscle and a respectable business sedan.

The tricky part is going to be the thrall itself. She's seen Drusilla do it a thousand times over, and it never made a damn lick of sense. Darla said it might have something to do with Lumen's own lack of suggestibility. Try as they might, she's always been one of those people who can't be hypnotized.

As far as superpowers go, it doesn't hold a candle to being a vampire. But the ability to thrall itself strikes Lumen as something that can only get better, given sufficient practice. It hasn't been easy. Many's been the throat she's torn out in sheer frustration after giving up, despairing of ever getting it right.

But now is the time. With her obedient slave no more than dust in the wind, patience can get fucked. Knowledge is power? Lumen's taken classes in journalism. She knows how to get information. By hook, or by crook.

She's still trying to settle on a darkened corner to hide in. Then the click of high heels puts her in a state of high alert. Lumen ducks back into shadow, both eyes locked on the car less than ten feet in front of her.

Most vampires are somewhat faster than mere mortals. But only a few can move at true Matrix-style speed, to the point where they're just a blur to the human eye. After weeks of training, Lumen's honed her skills to a degree she never would have dreamed possible. Now it's time to see if she can rely on them.

LaGuerta's not wasting any time as she steps out of the elevator. But she's also juggling a stack of folders in her hands. Her makeup is starting to smear, and it looks like one of her heels has lost a quarter of an inch. All in all, she never sees it coming.

"All that paperwork?" Lumen grins as she moves forward, bringing a loud squawk from LaGuerta as the vampire sweeps a startled woman off her feet. "It's going to be the death of you."

"Who the fuck --" LaGuerta doesn't try to hold onto the folders. Every single one takes a dive, spilling across the pavement as the lieutenant fights with all her might, going for the gun at her waist. For a moment, she nearly succeeds in breaking free.

Then her eyes meet Lumen's.

"That's right." Lumen doesn't blink. She grabs the woman by her right hand, holding on for dear life. "Take a good look."

LaGuerta's entire body stiffens. Her eyes are slowly widening, bulging with pure horror.

Not exactly a hot date. But for her purposes, it'll do nicely. At least some good has arisen from her nightmarish past.

"Ssh." Lumen lays a gentle hand on her arm, holding their gaze. "I know."

LaGuerta visibly calms at the reassurance. If by _calm_ one means reverting to a catatonic zombie, staring straight ahead and awaiting instructions.

"All right, then." Lumen can feel her eyes starting to itch from trying not to blink. Hopefully this won't take long. "Who is Dexter Morgan?"

The pitiful groan that wrenches forth from Lumen's victim is enough to startle even a vampire in complete command of the situation. Spittle oozes from between LaGuerta's clenched teeth, slowly running down her trembling chin. She may have been deservedly terrified a moment before. But whatever the hell this might be is threatening to short-circuit every last inch of her nervous system.

"Tell me," Lumen commands. She doesn't want to force things too fast, if she can help it. But she has no time for this shit. "Who is Dexter Morgan?"

 _"El --"_ LaGuerta's gasp is desperate, fighting for every scrap of air. _"El Diable."_

Lumen frowns. The other woman's throat bobs and convulses, her entire body quivering with unchecked emotion. Eyes staring blindly at nothing; the very words forced like poison from her throat.

"He's the devil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it worked for Buffy to allow Angel inside, I'd say it qualifies as an invitation.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lumen cleans up after herself. Deb hears a startling confession. Lumen's lack of a plan does not go well. Vince experiences more than sweet, sweet vindication. Dexter finally meets the mysterious stranger. Dexter learns more about his new world. And Darla takes the first tentative steps in a campaign of intimate psychological warfare.

It doesn't take Lumen long to realize she's been stuck with a lemon. Which does put a brief smile on her face, despite her annoyance. Lieutenant LaGuerta's knowledge of the Dexter Morgan case is understandably impressive. But she is also, as they say, a tad biased. When it comes to all things Dexter, he's done a perfect job of becoming the Great Satan of Miami Metro. Any and all of the department's problems can safely be blamed on him, with no further explanation required.

At this point, Lumen's feeling like a dog who finally managed to catch hold of a car. Unsure of her next move, she finds herself momentarily waffling on whether to kill this woman after all. It's been a while since she strayed to the distaff side of the fence. And that smooth brown throat is looking awfully tempting.

But Darla's right. They can't afford the exposure. A victim this high profile would definitely be unwise. And while it's not a complete deal-breaker, LaGuerta's sex does tend to dissuade Lumen from outright murder. Call it what you will. But even a vampire can't help being biased.

The only problem is what to do now. Learning to thrall was tricky enough, but a full-on Men in Black mindwipe is a whole new level. Until now, Lumen hasn't been concerned about leaving someone alive. Of the few who have actually allowed her to drink from them, there's no need to make those women forget. They're all too eager for her to pay another visit. As long as they've had enough time to build up a fresh stock of red cells. Sure, it can get tricky. Especially with Darla constantly looking over her shoulder, sneering in judgment. But it's a damn sight better than one night stands with college girls, or bored suburban housewives looking to broaden their horizons.

What's scary is how readily those otherwise intelligent women allowed her to take that first little sip. Even from Lumen's point of view, it's kind of insane. And the only reason she hasn't gone all the way with any of them, actually taking their lives, is her own prejudice regarding the male of the mortal species. That -- and the tiny, nagging, burning desire to defy the world's expectations. To do what no one would dream her capable of doing.

So Darla can roll her eyes all she likes. After snatching unlife from the very brink of death, Lumen refuses to let anyone else dictate terms on how she's supposed to live it. And if she intends to hold on to what little she's got, she can't afford to stagnate. It's important to keep moving forward. Acquire new knowledge and skills.

It's why she has to at least try the mindwipe thing. And not just for her own sake, to cover up any trail leading back to her. Most of the mortal guinea pigs who've been given a glimpse of the horrorshow inside her mind haven't been able to simply forget when they were ordered to, no matter how powerful the mental suggestion. Even for a hardened veteran in Homicide, removing LaGuerta's memory of this encounter will be a blessing.

So Lumen sets to picking up all of the fallen paperwork, going so far as to locate the correct folders for each piece. Then she walks LaGuerta stiff-legged to her car. It feels like she's taking a zombie on a date.

"You're going to wake up soon." Lumen opens the door and helps her inside, setting the stack of papers on the passenger seat. "You've been working too hard. You had a bad dream."

"I had a bad dream." LaGuerta's repetition is as dull and mindless as her stare. She stares blindly forward, hands limp at her sides. Only the breath in her chest, the luscious ebb and flow of liquid being pumped throughout her body, indicate the presence of life.

"Keep saying it." Lumen lays a reassuring hand on her victim's shoulder. The thud of that mortal pulse feels like a purring cat, writhing under her cold dead flesh. "For one minute. And then you'll wake up."

"I'll wake up." LaGuerta seems to find some small comfort in this. Her voice falls to a low mutter. "I had a bad dream. I had a bad dream..."

She continues to drone on.

Lumen leans in, unable to resist. Her open mouth presses hard against the throbbing lattice of blood vessels contained in that soft and vulnerable neck, as she closes her eyes and pretends to breath; inhaling unnecessary oxygen through her nose, along with every last molecule of scent and sweat. For a moment she quivers, on the verge of transformation.

Her lips close in a soft kiss before drawing away. She can feel her fist gripping the door of the car, hard enough that the cheap modern metal threatens to buckle in her grasp.

Lumen turns and breaks into a run. Heading for the edge of the building and leaping over, latching onto the wall and scurrying downward. She's halfway to the ground when it feels like the demonic equivalent of post-adrenaline shock is coming on strong. Instead of stopping she lets go, falling in a somersault and landing in a light crouch on the sidewalk. 

"Damn right," Lumen whispers, rising to her feet. She glares around, as if daring someone to come out of the shadows. Some foolish mortal with a knife. Or maybe a camera.

She hasn't learned much from LaGuerta beyond the bare facts of the case. The standard boilerplate, churned out by the truckload from every half-wit with a website. Just enough to whet her appetite. But the evening hasn't been a total loss. 

Darla's a proven and expert liar. But Lumen also knows that her maker doesn't lie unless she absolutely has to. And regardless of any other facts on the ground, someone has just put a stake through Cole Harmon. Destroyed a perfectly good investment of blood and fear, her very own first creation and personal slave.

Despite her infinite and more than justified hatred for him, Cole had been infinitely precious. Because he did exactly what he was told. Because he knew perfectly well that even without her sires to back her up, Lumen was more than capable of eviscerating him with her bare hands, before he could so much as blink. 

Whoever this Dexter Morgan is?

It's time they had a chat.

  


* * *

  


_Original Universe_

Deb's been staring at her phone too long.

Up until a few days ago, this was because she was always waiting for a call that never came. Now it's because she can't decide whether to make the call herself. Ever since Andrew gave her Faith's new number, torn doesn't begin to describe it. More like ripped up and scattered. Strewn about the landscape in a million pieces; a jigsaw to make even the most dedicated puzzle solver throw up their hands and admit defeat. 

Any other day would also have seen Lieutenant LaGuerta riding her ass like a rodeo clown. But with a decided lull in actual homicides, Dexter's absence has been relegated to the second string of departmental priorities: Annoying, but hardly a pressing concern. Given Deb's internal tension, growing with every day, she almost thinks she'd rather be getting the riding. At least it would give her something to push back against. As well as distract her from the obsessive rumination her thoughts inevitably return to. Imagining all manner of horrors Dexter might be experiencing.

"Got a minute?"

"You can have thirty if you buy lunch." Deb grabs keys and sunglasses from the desk, rising with a gleam in her eye. "I'll drive."

"There you go." Quinn offers his trademark smirk. He's even wearing the pink shirt today, secure in his cocky masculinity. "Assuming I'm just gonna roll over and open my wallet."

"Why not?" Deb shrugs, turns and heads for the door. "Somebody has to."

"Whoa." Quinn has to trot to catch up. He frowns as Deb dons her glasses, cutting off visual contact. "Trouble in paradise?"

"More than you know." Deb delivers the clipped reply with a decidedly sour demeanor. "And don't get me started. 'Cause I won't stop, and I'd be at it for a fucking week."

"Jesus," Quinn mutters. "Can see you're gonna be a barrel of laughs."

"Buy me lunch and I'll feel better," Deb says as they exit the station. It's a typical bright and sunny Miami day, more than justifying the glasses. It doesn't help her feel any less like a jerk.

"I like that you're mercenary enough to admit it." Quinn nods and straightens his collar with a flourish. "I respect that."

Deb remains silent as they buckle in and pull out. She can feel Quinn glance over at her as he casually rolls down his window and leans his elbow out, enjoying the breeze in his hair.

"I just --" Deb wrestles with herself for a moment. "It's not that I don't want to talk about it."

"Wow." Quinn covers his mouth, letting out a slight cough. "Sorry. That sounded more sarcastic than I wanted."

"And it's not just the privacy thing." Deb hits the light and turns right, heading down the main drag.

"Well, sure." Quinn sounds totally reasonable, the epitome of gentlemanly understanding. "You want to tell me your business, that's no problem. But your girl's another story." 

"It's not even that." Deb scans both sides of the street, eyes peeled for something good. The food trucks are out in force today, with plenty to choose from. "I don't want to make you my bitch."

The little choking sound from Quinn isn't enough to make her laugh. But it does make her smile, however briefly.

"I mean --" Deb searches for a proper analogy. "How's emotional tampon?" 

"You mean as a career choice?" Quinn snorts. "Yeah, I get you."

"I always hated that." Deb scans the sides of the street as they continue to cruise. "Girls dump all over these guys they call their friends. Everything from a broken nail to that bitch Suzy who's just such a whore. And those poor schmucks just suck that shit right up."

"It's what a partner's for," Quinn says. "Someone you can dump on. Sometimes, you just gotta vent."

"I do that every day." Deb rolls her eyes. "To the whole fuckin' world."

Quinn cranes his neck out the window. "How about that one?"

"Fine by me."

Apparently Quinn's in the mood for burgers. The truck he selected has bison, which almost puts Deb off her feed. But the smell is enough to overwhelm any lingering qualms. In short order they're back in the car, pulled into a parking lot and gnawing their way through a pair of doubles with bacon and fried egg.

"I tell you what," Quinn mumbles through a mouthful of meat. "For now? You hold on to that shit. 'Cause I'm still bettin' the two of you are gonna come through this."

"You are such a sap." Deb ignores the creeping flush up the back of her neck as she buries her face in her burger.

"But I got something --" Quinn pauses to swallow, following it up with a sip of iced coffee.

"I got something I need to tell you." He's looking at her directly now, his baby blue eyes a raging storm of concern. "And you're not gonna like it."

Deb pretends to chew this over. In reality, it's just the burger. Which is good, but not enough to distract from whatever Quinn's about to throw at her.

"Okay." She nods, trying to offer encouragement. "What is it?"

Quinn looks down at his half-eaten burger. Like he's thinking of taking another bite, just to procrastinate. Postpone the inevitable.

"I saw Lumen sniffin' your nephew." A grimace crosses Quinn's face. "Don't know how else to put it."

"The fuck?" Deb definitely doesn't like the sound of that. Even less than she was expecting. "You mean, like --"

"I mean like food." Quinn sighs, turning in his seat to face her. "Cody -- not Harrison. Leaned over to get his plate, and -- you know. Just for a second."

Deb can feel the mounting implications piling up across her shoulders. "You're sure?"

"Astor saw it too." Quinn chews on his lower lip. "I'm not saying she'd -- I mean, that's all I got. She really seems like a good mom."

"I'm just glad they're both out of school this year." Deb glares at her burger like it's the source of all her worldly woes. "Fuck me running, could this get any -- no. Scratch that."

"Worst case scenario," Quinn offers. "You better be ready to step in. 'Cause if you don't, all three of those kids are going to DCF. Bet that."

"No way." Deb shakes her head. "Astor and Cody were already placed with Paul's parents. They could go back --"

"Maybe." Quinn shrugs. "But you know how that shit goes down."

Deb knows. All too well.

"Just saying -- be prepared." Quinn throws her a quick look of warning as he polishes off the last of his burger. "And let me know what I can do."

Deb doesn't even want to think about it. Creepy as she finds Lumen, for reasons over and above mere vampirism, it's actually been a relief to see someone step in and take charge of her brother's household. The two of them have even been starting to bond a little. At least it felt like they were.

But she has to agree with Joey. Because lately, Lumen's been looking decidedly more haunted.

And hungry.

Fuck the can of worms.

This is a whole fucking coffin.

  


* * *

  


The country club is on the opposite side of the lake from the numerous private homes that include the Cooper residence. Lumen's already memorized the address from the printouts on Darla's desk. And while it's becoming harder to find a good taxicab, every bar and nightclub has been abuzz with talk about this new online service that lets you cut out the middleman and just order someone to pick you up and drop you off. She's still on edge from earlier, feeling a keen thirst that nearly overcomes her diminishing common sense.

Instead, she tips the driver a twenty. Then she waits for the car to disappear around the corner before taking a run at the brick wall. Her sneakers hold just enough to bear her light and lithe body to the top. She grabs on and vaults over the top, vanishing into the dark.

Not like the place is crawling with armed guards. But there's no telling on cameras, which are getting smaller and cheaper by the day, and so Lumen stays far from the main building, sticking to the shadows on the edge of the golf course. She can already see a number of smaller boats down by the docks. And no inconveniently placed people who might need to be dealt with.

The moon hangs fat and orange above the lake as she unties one of the paddleboats and pushes off. The pedals are well oiled, nearly silent. She almost snaps one off before finding their tolerance for her strength. But she's in no particular hurry. She verifies her heading, then settles back in her seat, enjoying the light breeze, the reflected moon on the rippling water beneath. It won't be long.

Less than two minutes later, she's reached a thicket of trees and bushes growing directly out of the water. Lumen frowns, looking for a way through to no avail. Even her enhanced night vision can't see a clear path in that swamp and mire. The nose of the boat is brushing up against a cluster of branches and bushes. Individually unimpressive, together they form an impenetrable wall.

But Lumen's seen nearly every episode of Xena. (There are some she refuses to watch.) And even without her brief and adolescent hero worship of all things Amazonian, she's got eyes and a brain. She can see perfectly well how to get from here to solid ground. It's just not something most people would attempt unless they were being paid. Or otherwise motivated.

She doesn't even have a solid plan. Of all the things she could be doing in response to this latest threat, talking it out seems like the least sensible option. Also the least appealing. The old Lumen might have done well in debate class. But this is a new life. It demands new rules.

She leans out of the boat and grabs one of the skinnier trees, leaping on and shimmying to the top. She's just heavy enough that it sways lightly back and forth under her weight. Lumen adds a bit of her own encouragement to this motion, surveying the surrounding trees. Finding a suitable one, she repeats the rocking and leans into the forward motion, flinging herself into the air.

A split second later she's latched onto her target, rough bark beneath her fingers, pressed against her cheek. The sense of exultation and triumph is almost enough to make up for the breath she isn't short on. For the heart that lies silent and unbeating in her chest.

Two more jumps take her from the swamp into actual woods. Like the lake, it's not large at all. Two more and she's at the edge of the back yard, clutching the largest tree so far, peering around the trunk at the Cooper house just uphill from where she sits.

It's a nice little modern mansion, with one odd thing that Lumen notices right away. All of the windows are dark. Mortals would find it impossible to see more than a vague shape. But her vampiric vision can discern all manner of clever and intricate details in the masonry and woodworking. She's no expert, but someone's clearly put their own heart into every inch of this place. Even the individual gardened areas all throughout the yard are all arranged to complement the dwelling, rather than detract from its solid and eloquent presence. 

Someone is standing on the patio.

Lumen almost pulls back behind the tree. She can hear a male voice, bouncing through the air, off her eardrums. But the shadowy figure is obviously alone. And he doesn't sound like he's talking on a phone.

The longer she sits and watches, the more it looks like the man is having one side of a conversation. Sounds like it, too. Even without a single word coming through at this distance. Just the tone of his voice, his reactions to whatever unseen entity is occupying his attention, are enough proof of his conviction. Whether or not it actually exists, this guy's a genuine true believer.

It's almost enough to dissuade her from following through. This half-ass excuse for a plan needs some serious work. And she's had enough batshit insanity from Drusilla to last a thousand lifetimes. If this stupid bloodsack insists on talking to invisible people instead of her, he really won't be long for this world. Not after she's worked up this much of an appetite.

Lumen drops to the ground and rises from her superhero landing, striding forward onto the property like a conquering hero. She can hear the man's voice come to a stop, even as she can almost make out what he was saying. And with these blood-fueled eyes she can easily see him turning, placing both his hands upon the railing and looking down at her.

She comes to a stop just underneath, directing a defiant gaze upward. Waits just long enough for him to wonder. Then she crouches low and springs straight up; honest to whatever damned unholy God like Lindsay fucking Wagner in the classic Bionic Woman. That's how she always thinks of it when she does this kind of shit. And it never gets old: Leaping nearly twenty feet into the air from the ground to the cement railing that runs around the edge of the patio, landing more graceful than a bat.

Instead of freaking out -- or reaching for a stake -- the man merely takes a single step back. Giving her space.

She hops down and stands before him, never taking her eyes from him. What's remarkable is how completely unremarkable he appears. Sandy brown hair; average height, annoyingly taller than herself. Medium build, fit without being heavily muscled. Good looking, but not enough to be memorable. And a curious smile, so small as to be barely present in the curve of his lip, the slight crinkle of amusement near the corners of his eyes.

She raises one eyebrow, surveying him from head to toe. His stance shows little tension, looking downright relaxed for someone in his position.

"I thought I heard something." The man nods, as if to himself, before focusing on her. "I was wondering if you'd show up."

By her quick calculation, this guy is on serious drugs. Or maybe -- just maybe -- Drusilla's so-called prophecies hadn't been full of shit. Problem being that Lumen had tuned all that garbage out long ago, long before being driven to the extreme measure of dusting her rival. Of course she'd had no way of knowing she might some day regret having paid insufficient attention to the ramblings of a madwoman. It wasn't like they were playing the stock market.

She's pretty confident she doesn't remember this guy's name ever coming up. So there's a starting point.

"Dexter Morgan?" She smiles as she says it. Salacious, with a note of mischief; just a touch of sarcasm atop the obvious rhetoric. Like she could be there to kill him. Or to tell him he's won the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes.

"Lumen Pierce." The reply is immediate, without a trace of doubt. "Unless you married -- Owen?"

Okay. That does rattle her just a bit. But damned if she's going to show it. 

"I don't like fortune tellers." She lets a hint of menace creep in. "You broke something of mine."

Rather than fearful, her quarry looks thoughtful. "He wasn't alone."

Lumen chokes back an incoherent curse. The moxie on this man is impressive, to say the least. Crazy as it sounds, it's possible Darla could be working with him. Doing their best to gaslight her, until Lumen gives in and stakes herself.

"You sound like a know it all." Lumen narrows her eyes. "Do you have any idea how much that thing cost?"

"You mean Cole Harmon?" Dexter sounds satisfied, like he's ticking off a required checkbox. "I can imagine."

A cold worm begins to slither deep inside her long-dead viscera. Already Lumen's regretting her impetuous and possibly premature decision. And the only thing keeping her from turning and disappearing into the forest, leaving Miami this very night to never return, is the slim possibility that he's not working with Darla.

It doesn't allay her foreboding in the least. But as she stares into his eyes, Lumen sees more than recognition, more than understanding. It's enough to rock her foundations to the core, in ways she hasn't felt since the night she was turned.

"I'm here to collect." Lumen's proud of how it comes out. Unhesitating, confident and strong. "But before I take it out in trade --"

"You want answers?" Dexter pauses before offering a slightly more obvious smile. It still looks awkward as hell. "Join the club."

Lumen actually takes a step back, bumping up against the railing and letting out a surprised cough. She can feel herself trying to blush as she reflexively covers her mouth with one hand. Some creature of the night she is.

"I've done this before. Not with you," Dexter adds. "Well -- you were there. In kind of an...advisory capacity."

This is worse than Dru. Mostly because this guy doesn't sound crazy. 

"So I might be willing to provide some." Dexter pauses and frowns before proceeding again. "Answers."

"You might?" Lumen has to laugh. She's surprised at how normal it sounds. "Or maybe I could make you squeal like a pig --"

"I'll trade." Dexter's words cause her to come to a halt in mid step.

"Questions," he continues, like it's obvious. "You go first."

Lumen laughs again, far shakier this time. Her knees are feeling wobbly, like warm rubber in the sun.

She stalks around him in a circle, continuing her intimate surveillance over every inch of his body, every aspect of his posture and body language. Stops directly in front of him, staring him down. Or up, as the case may be. Stupid tall people.

"Then tell me, pretty boy." Every moment of menace and murder in her unlife is poured into those words, concentrated into pure distillate of hate. "How do you think you know anything at all about me?"

"It's true." Dexter doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. "We've never met."

She can practically feel the thump of his heart from this distance, its pace only slightly elevated. His body is tense with anticipation, but nowhere near excitement. It's uncanny how calm he is. Also infuriating.

"So what's your point?" Lumen looks him up and down, her gaze blatantly lingering on his crotch before rising with a smirk. "I assume you have one."

"I do." Dexter seems to exude a faint disappointment in her. "I do know you."

Her laughter stops at the look on his face.

"A little knowledge is a dangerous thing." She intends to threaten. It comes out as a petulant rejoinder, devoid of real intimidation.

"Maybe I know more than you think." His voice is grave, increasingly compelling. As if he's trying to persuade her through sheer force of will.

"Come on."

He doesn't reach out to her. If he did, she'd tear his hand right off. He only looks at her with something Lumen hasn't seen since leaving home.

"What have you got to lose?"

A twin pair of high beams flare over the roof of the house, disappearing from view. Some vehicle coming up the street. And by the way Dexter turns and cocks his head, Lumen can tell it's about to get too crowded for her taste.

She's over the railing before he can move. A wraith, disappearing into the darkness.

More than anything, she's confused. Angry is a close second. And part of that stems from the realization that her anger is still outweighed by something more. The kind of curiosity that can take down even the biggest cats.

She's always been content with playing second fiddle to Darla. There's no percentage in being a leader. So she follows the rules, much as they might chafe. Her sire tells some pretty outlandish tales. But even if no more than one in ten of those has a grain of truth to it, that's still more than enough to drive home the lesson: The world of the supernatural is an ocean, big enough to cover a planet. Vampires are very, very small sharks. And not one of them with a lick of sense has the slightest desire to so much as lay eyes upon an actual whale.

Cole was never on her side. But he obeyed without question. Now Lumen really is alone.

 _You don't know me._ She mutters it all the way back to the boat, moving fast and heedless, arriving with numerous scrapes and scratches on her hands, on her face. She can feel herself shaking as she settles into her seat, staring at the water lapping against the hull of her tiny vessel. She's still saying it over and over, silent in her head, when she pulls into the dock of the country club two minutes later.

The words echo in her head as she clambers out of the boat, looking for a rope to secure her stolen craft. Not like an evil creature of the night cares about such things. But it's always best to be discreet --

"Excuse me." The voice sounds deep and authoritative. Lumen looks up to see the outline of a man, blinking at the bright light abruptly shining into her sensitive eyes. "This is private property."

"It is?" Lumen smiles. "Must have taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque."

"And so is that." The light flicks over to the boat, and back to her. "You need to come with me, ma'am."

"You're right."

The bones in her face groan and shift. Fangs sprouting over Lumen's lower lip, as her mouth spreads in a cruel smile.

"I certainly do."

  


* * *

  


I'm still reeling from my brief interaction with a semi-familiar face when I turn around to find Lumen gone. From the woods I can make out the faint and fading sound of movement, high up in the trees.

If those headlights were from Brian's car, he and Astor won't be more than a few minutes. I'm calculating my next move when my brain notices something.

It's an odd thing. Not quite a ripple of the air beside me. Almost a feeling; a brief and intangible flutter in the darkness.

I don't think.

I react.

  


* * *

  


Vince hasn't had too many visitors since the great downsize. He's been less focused on dating anyway, to the point where the money he saves on a smaller apartment is almost an afterthought. Still, be it ever so humble, a man's hovel is his castle. And having finished his standard post workout menu of a baked sweet potato, a quart of Greek yogurt and a double chocolate protein shake, the evening requires only a marathon of classic MacGuyver for the magnificent Mister Masuka to achieve maximum nirvana. At least without the benefit of female companionship.

He's thinking along those lines as he goes to answer the door, with visions of the Swedish Bikini Team dancing in his head. But the rapping sounds more irritated than inviting. While the odds are slim, Vince thinks he knows who it is. Especially when he's not behind on any payments.

"Thought I recognized that pounding." Vince moves to one side, holding out a hand of welcome.

"You want a pounding, keep that shit up." Doakes strikes past him and into the suddenly cramped apartment, glaring at his surroundings. "Jesus. Is that a lava lamp?"

"Good to see you haven't changed." Vince shuts the door, ignoring the tickle in his belly. Even a human Doakes is dangerous enough. "And yes. Ladies like it, and I find it relaxing."

"Should have known." Doakes shakes his head, glancing over at the couch with open distaste.

"Pretty sure you didn't drop by to critique my interior decorating." Vince does his best to keep the sarcasm to a minimum. "What's up?"

Doakes reaches into his pocket, holding up a piece of black plastic with glints of metal chrome. Vince reaches out for the thumb drive, only for the other man to pull it away.

"Uh uh. First?" Doakes's grim smile is devoid of humor. "You get Batista over here. I want him to see this."

"Sure." Vince is already pulling out his phone, bringing up Angel and hitting the shortcut to send a prewritten text. "I'll put the kettle on."

Doakes's eyes narrow in a look of ugly suspicion. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"No, it just comes naturally." Vince sighs as the other man begins to visibly bristle. "I'd offer you a coffee, but I'm out of decaf." 

Doakes merely glowers in response.

"Seriously," Vince continues, walking over to the kitchen area. "I've got all kinds of herbal tea. Nothing too effeminate."

Doakes throws back his head and stares at the ceiling, offering up a weary chuckle. Vince decides the rooibos is probably best. Red, rich and robust in flavor without being overly sweet.

"So I take it you got something?"

"No idea." Doakes looks back down at the gleaming piece of metal and plastic in his hand. "But I'm betting on a big fat nothing."

"Like, actual money?" Vince finds a clean mug, filling it from the jug of filtered water sitting on the counter. "Care to make a real wager?"

"On your paycheck?" Doakes's snort is one of maximum disdain. "Or mine."

"I'm no high roller," Vince says, as he places the mug in the microwave. "But I'd be willing to put a hundred on it."

Doakes blinks, then frowns. "Dollars."

"Absolutely." Vince removes his glasses, giving them a thorough polishing on the tail of his shirt. "Anything at all, that makes you go -- _Damn. That little creepazoid actually wasn't a fucking whackjob._ "

He dons his glasses again to find the other man staring almost right through him, with a nearly literally piercing glare. Even for Doakes, it's unsettling. 

"You don't sound all that confident." Doakes lowers his voice to a growl, stalking up to the counter and leaning over with a glare. "Not to me."

The ding from the microwave interrupts Vince's response. He's not even sure what he intended to say. He drops the bag into the steaming water, placing a saucer atop the mug.

"I don't want to be crazy." Vince shrugs, putting it out there as plainly as he can. "And I don't want to be right."

"Right about what?" Doakes snorts once more, like an angry bull. "Your campfire ghost stories?"

Vince looks over at the clock on the wall. Five minutes for maximum flavor.

"Look, asshole." Doakes raises one hand and slaps it down on the counter, his voice an angry whisper. "I used an unauthorized drone. Fucking violated seven kinds of federal law. Just so I can prove a little something to your ass."

Vince looks back, startled into silence. Behind the glasses, he can feel his eyes growing very large.

"That's right, motherfucker." Doakes holds up the thumb drive again. "I ran it all day and night. And when it doesn't show a goddamn thing, you're gonna throw this Anne Rice bullshit in the dumpster fire of your life, and get back to your real fucking job."

Vince shakes his head. "Again you betray yourself."

"Shut the fuck up." Doakes's glare has reached laser intensity.

"How'd you pull it off?" Vince thinks for a moment. "Legally."

"How do you think?" Doakes looks at him with a mixture of scorn and pity, like he can't believe a working adult can be this naive. "Went to a friend still works for the agency. Virgin hardware. No foreign spyware, no Silicon Valley backdoors, no FAA serial number. Legal as it gets."

"Well -- I'm from Missouri." Vince tries not to make this sound like a challenge. "Show me."

"As soon as Angel walks in that door." Doakes shoves the drive back in his pocket and folds both massive arms over his chest, exuding complete and total confidence. "Because I want him to see the look on your face."

  


* * *

  


Even though my eyes have long adjusted to the darkness, it's still somewhat difficult to see. But as my body slams into another one, my arms wrapping tight around a struggling and obviously female form, taking her down to the patio, I realize I'm not relying on sight. That whoever I'm fighting is effectively invisible. She's smaller than me; strong for a woman, clearly an experienced fighter. But as I manage to fix an arm bar across her neck, barely avoiding a well-aimed knee strike at my groin, I realize she's laboring under the same handicap.

We're both trying not to kill each other.

"You're not a Slayer." I ease off the pressure on her throat.

"No shit." The voice is strained. Working class British. A less seductive version of Lilah, perhaps.

I'm still marveling at the complete absence of any visual evidence. For all I can tell in the dim light, I'm clutching thin air. Hovering a foot above the brick surface of the patio.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"That is..." A brief and cynical chuckle comes out of the dark. "A bit more complicated than usual."

"Have you been following Astor?" I cast about for any possible hope of illumination. "Are you a Watcher?"

"Watching you, wasn't I?" Her smirk is more than audible. I realize I'm starting to actually see it. A smear of reflected photons, slowly resolving into flesh. "And who might you be?"

"I asked you first." I try not to sound like a parent. Or a child.

"You're not Cooper." She still sounds quite relaxed, as though she has nothing to fear from detection. Unlike myself. "Didn't think anyone was home. 'Til I saw you."

She's fully visible now. Deep brown eyes and matching long hair, a stern but attractive face I don't recognize. The scent of lilacs fills my brain. I have no idea why I didn't notice it before. Unless she was masking her presence in more than one way.

"Think you know your way around the vamps, do you?" An offhand shrug sends a series of pleasant vibrations through her bosom. She's dressed like a classic cat burglar, _sans_ mask: A long sleeved black turtleneck, matching jeans and a pair of rubber-soled canvas sneakers.

"I've had a few run ins." I can hear the garage door opening. I envision Brian slowly easing the car in, guarding its pristine paint against the slightest of scratches.

I make my decision. I release her, and stand. 

"Cheers." The stranger's salutation is rueful as she sits up, rubbing her right arm. "My own fault thinking I could drive the magicks."

"You're probably doing better than I would," I say. I watch as she heaves herself to her feet, dusting off her clothes.

"Don't recommend it," she says with a grimace. "Except as a last resort."

I hear the garage door descending. Brian must be out of the car by now. Maybe juggling groceries, or almost inside the house.

The woman turns and climbs onto the railing, preparing to jump.

"Wait --" I'm confused. "Your Potential just got back."

"Along with her legal guardian." A note of grim warning enters her voice. "And I'm not done looking into that boy."

She leaps off into the yard, landing with reasonable grace and a light grunt of impact. I see her turn and look up from below.

"If I were you?" Her voice echoes through the night air. "I'd be a bit more careful choosing my friends."

She turns and heads for the trees, disappearing in a brief and fading rustle of fallen leaves.

Of all the times to meet someone new. I didn't even get her name. And she left too soon for me to tell her that family aren't necessarily friends.

That sometimes we don't get a choice.

  


* * *

  


"Jesus Christ." Doakes leans forward, staring at the laptop screen. He seems ready to force his entire body through the display, wholly into the guts of the machine. "Jesus fucking Christ, Masuka. All I wanted was to shut you up. And look at this shit. Look at what the fuck I'm seeing."

Vince is in no real hurry. He already said he didn't want to be right. And he most assuredly doesn't want to witness whatever fresh bloody horrors are being perpetrated by man, beast or anything in between. That was why he came back over here to the kitchen area of his miniscule studio apartment. To make a fresh cup of tea, and pretend everything was normal. Just for a few more minutes.

Except Doakes isn't simply angry. Despite his bulk he's practically levitating, vibrating up and off of the couch, his entire body rigid with refusal to accept what's right in front of him. Vince hopes he isn't having a heart attack.

He looks over at Angel, sitting next to Doakes. His partner still looks odd without his customary hat, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. Angel glances up and nods.

In that moment, Vince knows he's screwed. He doesn't say a word; doesn't show the slightest sign of righteous vindication after all this time. Instead he takes a deep breath, and picks up his tea. The walk to the couch takes years, every step an eternity.

The screen is motionless as its contents come into view, the playback paused in a fuzzy still frame. The view is the back patio of Rudy Cooper's house. Vince has only been inside the house on two occasions, and he's never seen it from this angle. But he recognizes it right away. As well as the man who is most decidedly not Rudy, standing there practically looking the camera in the eye as he leans on the railing, squinting against the sun high overhead. His sandy brown hair is slightly shaggier than Vince remembers. But in every other respect, it's the same man he saw just the other day, through the binoculars. The same man he pronounced --

"What the _fuck_ \--" Vince leans in, adjusting his glasses. He can't believe it took him this long to notice.

"What the fuck do you mean, what the fuck?" Doakes is beginning to sound as confused as he is angry. A dangerous combination. "You're the one going around saying the son of a bitch is alive!"

Vince stares at the screen. Paralyzed by disbelief; in a bigger state of shock than the whole Jackson clan. "He's not a vampire?"

Angel makes an odd, off-key sound in his throat that doesn't resemble any human language. Vince can feel Doakes beside him, slowly turning with an incredulous look, mouth slightly ajar.

He can only think of one thing to say. "This changes everything." 

"Do the words 'no shit' ring a bell?" All of Doakes's rage is compressed into his near whisper. His fingers are twitching like he's trying not to grab Vince by the throat and squeeze the life from him. "Even if I got this through channels! Do you realize what this means? And what the fuck are you still on about this creature of the night shit for? You're lucky I don't drag your ass into LaGuerta's office right now, so you can --"

"James." Angel's quiet interruption almost goes unheard. It's the first time he's spoken since the video began to roll.

Doakes comes to a sputtering halt. He looks more than ready to get into it and throw down, all of his mental gears visibly grinding. But that infuriated expression is slowly undergoing a tectonic shift. At the look of somber warning on Angel's naturally rounded and normally jolly face.

At the dawning realization of the powderkeg the three of them are sitting on.

Angel continues, low and urgent. "Even if there is nothing supernatural going on --" 

"Fuck _if_!" Doakes is matching Angel's reduced volume, as they huddle closer together. "Don't give me that --"

"Even if." Angel looks back at the figure on the screen. "We've got a serial killer who managed to fake his own death."

"Motherfucker, I was there!" Doakes grabs his jaw, working it back and forth as though mauling his own flesh. His upheld hand trembles, making pointless gestures, finally clenching into a fist. "And so were you. We were all in that room. We saw that psycho's body laid out!"

"And there he is." Angel nods at the screen. "Or someone who got plastic surgery to look just like him."

Doakes bites back an angry retort.

"I mean -- that's certainly possible." Angel glances over at Vince for validation. "More possible than Dexter faking his death. And even more likely than him actually coming back from the dead."

Doakes, on the verge of interjecting, remains silent. Vince can practically hear the sergeant's teeth grinding as he sits and fumes, glaring back at Angel with increasing apprehension.

"But I can think we can all agree there is something very fucked up going on here. And we need to know more about it." Angel looks around their circle, seeking some sort of confirmation. "Before something happens even worse."

As one, they turn to look at the screen.

"Middle of the day," Doakes mutters. "Cooper's at work."

"Astor doesn't really go out all that much," Angel points out.

Doakes turns to Angel, with a look of outrage. "You think he knows?"

"You think she's keeping Dexter a secret from him?" Angel shrugs. "House is not that big."

"Two days ago?" Vince nods at the screen. "Dexter was inside the house."

Doakes whips his head around, fixing Vince with a baleful glare.

"Saw him in the front sitting room." Vince tries not to sound like he's apologizing for stating the facts. "You know -- sitting."

"This is --" Doakes is looking mystified beyond all comprehension. His not so quiet rage continues to simmer and seethe, roiling his ruggedly chiseled face in a maelstrom of emotion. "Why the fuck would Cooper be hiding the man who killed his girlfriend? A guy who cut up his own fucking sister?"

"All right." Angel's voice has the tone of command. He looks at them both in turn. "First off: Not one word about this. To anyone. Until we all agree."

Vince doesn't hesitate. "Done."

Doakes gives them a smoldering glare that could vaporize steel.

"Done." The word is a death sentence, a single syllable dragged kicking and screaming from Doakes's throat.

"Second." Angel holds up two fingers in a V for Victory sign. "This is not your circus. I'm the ranking officer. If we go down -- I take the fall."

"Nice thought." Vince can't help a note of bitter disillusionment. "Face it. If the brass want us gone? We're buried."

"I'm serious," Angel insists. "I'm not having you put in the shit. Either of you," he adds, fixing Doakes with a keen eye and meaningful stare.

"Already there." Doakes shakes his head as he stares at the image of Dexter onscreen. He reaches for the flash drive, intent on reclaiming his prize.

"Wait," Vince interjects. "How much more footage have you got?"

"It's still going." Doakes hesitates, seemingly judging Vince's fitness to know more. "Got it synced to a backup server. Three times a day, over an encrypted channel."

Angel frowns. "Seems kind of risky."

"Safer than going back," Doakes says. "Had a hard enough time getting that thing set up."

"And how far does this batch go?" Vince asks.

"Full twenty-four hours." Doakes's apprehension contains an increasing component of suspicion. "Like I said. All day and all night."

"Would you trust me enough to leave that here?" Vince nods at the laptop. "I'd like to see all of it."

"Like I haven't got enough -- fine." Doakes throws up his hands, rising to his feet and stalking toward the door. "But you keep that fucking wifi turned off."

"There's no wifi on this machine," Vince informs him. "Older model."

Doakes continues, as though he hasn't said a word. "And don't you dare plug that thing into any kind of network."

"I got a homemade Faraday cage." Vince nods. "Pup tent. Restaurant-size box of tinfoil."

"Wow." Angel shakes his head, looking back and forth between them with a smile.

Doakes's hackles rise with renewed aggression. "What?"

"It's just nice to see you working together." Angel chuckles. "You should do it more often."

Doakes appears ready to spout his usual reflexive rebuttal. Then he stops, and actually smiles. It's a small one.

But not openly hostile.

  


* * *

  


I hurry back inside the house to find Astor and Brian just coming in from the garage. Brian is carrying a cardboard box full of cleaning supplies. Astor looks haggard and worn, the pallor of her skin a stark contrast to her dark pants and sweater.

"I'll take care of it." Astor takes the box from Brian's unresisting fingers, avoiding his attempts to capture her gaze. I watch her walking out of the kitchen before I realize he's looking over at me. 

I have to ask. "Is she okay?" 

"She hasn't been okay since before her mom died." Brian walks over to the sink and leans on the stainless steel counter, staring into the black rubber maw of the garbage disposal. "You should know."

The Astor in my universe had been almost as suspicious of me, almost as slow to warm to my presence before daring to come out of her shell. And Rita's death had nearly been the end of our already fragile relationship. The only thing that had saved us was our shared experience of her coming into power as a Slayer. Bonded by blood.

"Does she have any friends?" I ask. "Anyone her age?"

"There was Olivia," Brian says. "But she moved. I don't think they stayed in touch."

"Does she ever -- talk about boys?" I strive to recall every detail of those halting, awkward attempts at dialogue. "Or girls?"

Brian stares down into the drain mouth. It doesn't feel precisely like he's refusing to meet my gaze.

"Who was that man?"

I'm not expecting the tangent, but it comes as no surprise. It's question and answer time for Dexter Morgan. Who is in no position to request tit for tat.

"Cole Harmon," I say. I'm already triangulating a path, trying to catch a glimpse of potential pits full of punji stakes. "I killed him."

Brian looks up in brief befuddlement, before his face clears. "You mean --"

"Before," I confirm. "Before -- now."

"And yet --" Brian glances down at my hand, still holding the wooden salad spoon. "There he was." 

"How much garlic have you got in the house?" I reach out and place the spoon on the counter, never taking my eyes off my brother's. "Because now might be a good time to stock up."

"This --" Brian shakes his head, at a loss for words. "Is Rita --"

He breaks off again. I can see it in every line of his face; even after all he's seen, the absolute barrier in his mind to the very existence of the word.

"A vampire." I state it as fact. Not question.

His eyes grow bigger yet. For a moment he's not seeing me at all; blinded by untold visions. But it's hardly a stretch to think that they involve a great deal of blood.

"We'll see." I walk up to him, reach out and clasp the muscle and bone of his shoulder.

"Get some rest." I squeeze just a bit. Little brother, reassuring big. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

Brian's uncertain laugh matches the slightly deranged look in his eyes. He raises his hand to mine, his gaze to the ceiling, struggling to make sense of it all.

"Think I'll go for a swim first." The glance he gives me is surreptitious, like he's confiding a secret. "I'm a little wired up."

"I know the feeling." I see his skepticism. "Really."

I watch him disappear down the hall. I'm considering my next move when I hear the barest squeak of a floorboard behind me. I turn to find Astor, peeking around the corner.

"That's not true."

She steps out into full view and meets my gaze with her chin held high, her stance unrelenting in its defiance.

"What he said," she continues. "It's not true."

I skim over the bare details my brother has provided. "Which part?"

"About boys." Astor's pale cheeks are turning slightly pink. "There was one."

"You mean a boy that you liked?" I hope I'm doing this right.

"More like he liked me." Astor grimaces, in a seeming mixture of annoyance and distaste. "He was older. Not that much. I wasn't going to let him do anything."

She's looking all around the kitchen now, at anything that isn't me.

"But it was just nice." A momentary huskiness enters her voice. "For a while."

"What happened?" I'm already anticipating the worst. Par for the course in this world. "Did he --"

"No." Astor's response is immediate, her flat tone brooking no opposition. "He never touched me. And I told him that. I told --"

She stumbles to a halt. I can see her eyes glistening.

"I told Brian." Her voice quivers, then hardens. "I told him nothing happened."

I try to sound gentle. "And then?"

"And then -- he moved." Astor turns her glare back upon me. It seems at best half-hearted. "Jessie moved."

She takes a deep breath. Slowly lets it out, holding my gaze the entire time.

"And I never saw him again."

  


* * *

  


When it comes to survival, Darla's instincts are honed to a razor's edge. It's part of the reason she's lasted this long in the first place. Wisdom comes naturally with age, unless one actively seeks to avoid it. Combined with her keen eye for detail, a constant and obsessive observance of her environment, she's always been quick to notice anything out of place with the way things ought to be. Especially when it comes to beings and the way they behave. Both the living and the dead.

She's already suspicious when Lumen returns from an impromptu excursion. The other vampire's milky skin is paler than ever, the veins running underneath more prominent, lending a bluish cast to her complexion. A sure sign of lack of feeding. And that's before the haunted and shaken look in her eyes; the stray twigs tangled in her hair, the numerous cuts and scrapes on her face and hands just starting to heal. 

"Let me guess." Darla can't resist a good old fashioned jab. With a good old fashioned hatpin. "You couldn't find a man."

"Oh, I had one." Lumen's bile threatens to spill out in a savage growl. "Until the rest of those goddamn guards came out. And I had to run. Like a fucking --"

She bites back a curse, on the verge of shifting into game face. Darla remains unperturbed.

"I take it you went to see for yourself." Darla can't resist a smile. "Was she really that daunting?"

Lumen stares back at her, confusion and outrage at war upon her face.

"And she's only a Potential." Darla lets a note of dry sarcasm creep into her lilting, lyrical tones. "Let's hope you never meet a real Slayer."

The choking sound is like steam escaping. Lumen strides forward and slams both hands down on the desk, looming well into Darla's personal space.

"Not her." Lumen sounds like she's being strangled. For a vampire, that's quite a feat. "You stupid fucking bitch."

"Well, that's sure to win friends and influence vampires." Darla's disapproval is plain. "What, then? The one who broke your boy toy?"

"I'm not playing." Lumen's resolution rings out as she clenches her fists, gripping at her fleeting remnants of self-control. "And this isn't some fucking game. Either you get rid of Dexter Morgan --"

"Or what?" Darla sneers, exuding undisguised contempt. "What will you do?"

Lumen leans down, her mortal teeth bared in a snarl.

"Or I'll kill him myself."

Darla watches Lumen turn and stalk away, idly admiring the angry swing of her hips. If only everything could be that simple. But you can't slaughter your way out of every problem. Much as it would improve the character of most mortals, if she's learned anything over the centuries, it's how to live in this world.

Darla hums as her gaze falls once more to the open folder on the desk. A school photograph in black and white stares up from the printout: A young teenage girl with long dark hair tumbling past her shoulders. Her smile is awkward, more than slightly anxious.

"Astor."

She murmurs the name, slowly running her finger down the image of the girl's cheek.

"That's a lovely name."

  


* * *

  


"You sure you don't have coffee?" Angel wrinkles his nose at the mug in his hand.

"Couple different substitutes I was trying out." Vince is tapping the right arrow key with his index finger, manually advancing through the video. "You probably wouldn't like them." 

"You mean like -- fake coffee?" Angel looks horrified at the concept. "What's the point?"

"Hey, some people like carob. Not as a chocolate substitute, just -- on its own merits." Vince checks the timestamp in the corner. The sun on the recording should be setting any moment now. "I had some carob ice cream that wasn't bad."

"Well, that's a rousing endorsement." Angel holds the mug of red bush tea at a comfortable distance from his face. "You should be their new spokesman."

"Here we go." Vince holds up his finger, nodding at the screen. "Sun just went down." 

"And you really think you're gonna see some more shit." Angel sets his mug on the table, frowning as he scratches his goateed chin. "Something crazier than a dead man walking?"

"Doakes already owes me a hundred." Vince hits the control to resume playback, dialing it to one quarter original speed. "Want to make it fifty? At two to one?"

Angel sounds appropriately suspicious. "Which way?"

"Duh." Vince continues to stare at the empty patio on screen, the pixellated flickers that simulate actual motion where none is actually present. "Hundred to you -- fifty to me."

"And what am I betting on?" Angel looks like he's already regretting it. 

"Same terms I gave Doakes," Vince says. "Anything that makes you go, hey -- Masuka wasn't crazy after all."

Angel sighs. "Done."

Vince shrugs. "I don't ask for much."

A green glow is beginning to fade into view; suffusing every solid surface, outlining the world in pure night vision. Vince points at the screen. A figure is walking out the back door of the house onto the patio. The figure of Dexter, another virtual construct in the matrix.

"Good resolution," Vince comments.

"It's the _federales_." Angel snorts. "Nothing but the best for our boys in the red, white and blue --"

"Wait." Vince reaches out and slaps the space bar. "Hello. Who's this?"

"Biker chick," Angel observes. The newcomer is standing in the lower part of the yard under the patio, her back to the camera, long blonde hair trailing down the back of her leather jacket as she gazes up at Dexter. Romeo, to his Juliet.

Vince looks at Angel, who nods. He disables the slowmo, returning to normal speed.

And the woman leaps onto the railing, twenty feet straight up.

Both men nearly rocket up and out of their own seats. Vince is already rewinding and rerunning, fingers trembling with excitement.

They end up going over the same segment a total of four times, at varying speeds. Angel's muttering to himself goes silent on the second repetition. Each time, blonde Trinity flies back up and lands in front of Dexter. And the son of a bitch doesn't so much as flinch.

"Was he expecting her?" Angel sounds more annoyed than mystified.

"Don't know." Vince slows it down just a touch as the woman hops down from the railing to stand in front of Dexter. But neither party are showing signs of imminent violence. Only quiet conversation.

"So does that high jump qualify?" Vince doesn't bother looking at Angel. "Or do you need something crazier?"

"I don't know." Angel shakes his head. He sounds more dazed than the morning after they polished off a pitcher of screaming blue motorcycles. "Wait -- what was that?"

"What?" Vince hits the pause. "Show me."

"Behind Dexter. Just to the left." Angel frowns. "Some kinda -- I don't know," he concludes, looking frustrated. "Keep it going."

Vince thinks he sees it too. Some weird glitch in the matrix; a smear on the screen that flickers in and out, until he's ready to scream. Angel keeps blinking and rubbing his eyes as they pause and rewind, advance frame by individual frame, trying to pinpoint the disturbance. But neither of them can determine either Jack or shit.

"How much left on the tape?" Angel's looking a bit more bleary and bloodshot since last time vince looked over. "James said it was twenty-four hours."

"At normal speed?" Vince checks the indicator. "Not quite an hour."

They finally give up and move on. The conversation doesn't last long. That's when blonde Trinity vanishes, or close enough; buggers off almost faster than the camera can spot. But with slowmo they can both see which way she went, off the patio and into the trees. Dexter just stands there, looking confused.

And then he leaps on an empty chair.

The two men gape at the sight. Dexter is thrashing like a madman, grappling with some invisible enemy. For a moment it seems as though whoever it is has the upper hand. Then Dexter topples to the ground, holding himself aloft in the air, just above the bricks. 

Vince is still trying to figure it out when he realizes there's another figure coming into focus. A seamless digital insertion of a woman's body, underneath Dexter and inside his grasp, clad all in black. The contours of her face aren't too discernible at this distance. But she seems to be smiling.

This time it's Angel who reaches out and hits the pause button. "Holy shit."

"What?" Vince looks over at his colleague, staring at the screeen.

"I think that's Catherine." Angel swallows. "The DCF worker."

"The one you were drinking with?" Vince can feel his heart sinking again as Angel nods. "Oh, my." 

Vince is biting his lip as the playback resumes. But the fighting appears to be over. More talking; Dexter letting go, climbing to his feet. His quarry taking her leave, without Dexter raising a finger to stop her.

Dexter stands for a long moment, staring off into the woods. Until a sliver of light appears. Stretches out and over the bricks of the patio, expanding into a rectangle that bears the silhouette of a man.

"Guess that answers that." Angel's voice is hushed as Rudy walks out onto the deck. "You think Cooper knows anything about those women?"

"Doesn't feel like it." Vince watches as Dexter turns and follows Rudy back inside. All while the drone continues to sit not thirty feet away, silently recording and spooling up data.

Angel's starting to get that look of righteous anger. "But he sure as hell knows about Dexter."

Vince nods. "Dude's his Kato Kaelin."

"Talk about a trusted house guest." Angel shakes his head. "Are you gonna show this to James?"

"As long as you're standing between us." Vince raises his glass of kombucha in a sarcastic toast. "You can be my human shield."

  


* * *

  


"You're sure you don't want me?"

"Always." Darla smiles, to defuse any hard feelings.

Rachel shakes her head. "I don't like you going alone."

"I need you here," Darla says, glancing over her shoulder. "To keep an eye on the Lightworker."

"Lightbringer." Rachel doesn't look any happier. "That's what Dru called her."

"Yes, well -- some of us weren't fortunate enough to reap the benefits of a classical education." But Darla feels a sting in her heart at the absence of her long time companion. Dru might have been mad, but the bond they shared after losing their respective men had been enough to keep them together through countless disasters, both natural and otherwise.

She really ought to have written down more of Dru's ramblings. Kept a notebook, for easier reference. But hindsight can make an ass out of anyone.

"Don't let her out of your sight." Darla delivers her command with easy grace, the perfect assurance of knowing it will be carried out to the letter. "I'll be back before dawn."

"I should hope so." Rachel's sarcasm doesn't mask her obvious concern. It may just be for an effective leader and meal ticket. Still, it leaves Darla feeling slightly more optimistic.

The only downside is having to walk all the way out of the abandoned industrial zone before she can call for a cab. But Darla's wearing her best clubbing outfit. A sleek lavender number; not too revealing, obviously expensive. And there's the pair of designer heels in her purse, to be pulled out and put on as soon as she reaches civilization. After touching up with a little lipstick and eye shadow, any cab driver should be paying her for the privilege.

She has them drop her off a few blocks away from the house. The satellite map Rachel had printed out indicated that the next street over wasn't connected to Cooper's. As far as automobile traffic was concerned. But a person -- or a vampire -- could walk right through without having to do more than hop a fence.

 _"Anything you can do, I can do better..."_ Darla sings under her nonexistent breath as she vaults the fence. In heels, without getting stuck in the mud. _"I can do anything better than you..."_

She slips through the dark, emerging from the trees. A candle flickers in the window far above. The same bedroom where mere hours ago, Cole had met his less than timely demise.

Darla leaps up and grabs the window frame, settling her heels into place. She gives a quick tap on the glass.

The shadow that moves inside resolves into Astor's startled face, illuminated by candlelight. The girl looks terrified. And elated.

Ready to crawl over hot coals.

The window slides open.

"Astor?"

She makes it sound exactly right. Hesitant in every way; hopeful beyond measure. And the look on the girl's face is enough to convince Darla, without question.

She's on the right path.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darla's path is clear. A contrast in Astors. An introduction by name. The brothers Morgan experience two very different visions. Doakes and Angel come to a terrifying realization. Some names are finally put to some faces. And everything happens way too fast.

Darla can scarcely contain her elation. A more perfect opportunity for dark delight she can't imagine. The sort that demons dream of, the kind that comes along maybe once in millennia. If only Dru were here to see the result of her prophecy. To provide further guidance.

But the foundation is simple enough. The girl's initial reaction at their first encounter had been deliciously satisfying, yet vaguely hinting at so much more beneath the surface. The basic family history Rachel put together through public records is sufficient to explain quite a bit. As well as providing a treasure trove of potential avenues, ripe for exploitation. And all she has to do is make believe.

There's no video footage to study, no way to pick up on all the idiosyncratic details that make up a person. But Darla can well imagine the meek and timid mouse that must have been Rita Bennett. It makes her bloody sick to think of it. For all they're supposed to be mortal enemies, she thinks the Slayer deserves better. 

"I knew it." She breathes the words out on stolen air. All her unsure hopes confirmed, as she takes in the joyful sight before her. "I knew I remembered."

Astor's gaze descends to the frame of her window, travelling slowly around the perimeter. "You can't come in."

It's partly a question. Astor nods, more firmly, but still uncertain.

"That's --" Darla pretends to think it over. "Probably a good idea."

Astor kneels in the window seat, tucking her legs underneath her. Her bathrobe is thick and plush, a dark burgundy red that goes straight to Darla's hunger pangs. Along with the heavenly hellish scent of freshly scrubbed child, all pink and clean from the bath. The thought of taking the girl in her arms and tenderly sinking her fangs into that slim neck leaves her feeling weak in the knees, quivering and wet.

"Because --" Astor swallows. "You want to drink my blood."

Darla manages a shy and apologetic smile. "Is it that obvious?"

"Why didn't --" Astor struggles to collect her thoughts. "What else do you remember?"

"You mean -- about you? About -- my life?" Darla laughs, with just the proper shakiness. "Until I saw you -- nothing."

"I guess so." Astor's gaze runs over the lush curves of her body, slightly spilling out from the confines of a tight fitting dress. It's an appraising look, not entirely unapproving. Even slightly jealous.

"I remember you." Darla nods, seeming lost in thought. "And Cody. And Harrison --"

Astor's hand flies up to cover her mouth. Fresh tears are springing to her eyes, trickling down in silvery trails. It makes Darla want to lean in and lick them directly from that delicate skin.

"No, baby..." Darla knows she deserves an award for these awful shushing sounds she's being forced to make. For now, the girl's reaction is reward enough. "It wasn't your fault."

Astor pulls her hand away with a deep and shuddering breath.

"I know." Astor doesn't look convinced. More angry, as she drags her sleeve across her face.

There's more than enough time to go down that road. Right now the goal is to acquire information without blowing her cover. But between modern medicine and hygiene, with actual crib death gone by the wayside nearly a century, Darla absolutely suspects foul play. Most cases these days are nothing but euphemism, trotted out to cover up all sorts of delicious and dastardly deeds. Anything from professional malfeasance to murder.

"I don't really remember much else." Darla settles into a seated position, seemingly lost in thought. "But it feels -- like I'm just waking up. And all that vampire stuff..."

She laughs at the very notion. As if it's patently ridiculous.

"It was just a bad dream." She looks down at her hand, clenching it into a fist before lifting her gaze. Feeling the pleasurable creak and shift of her true face emerging from within; relishing Astor's visible flinch and quick intake of breath.

"But it's real." The fangs and craggy snarl vanish with a quick shake of her head. Darla gazes sadly at her mock daughter. "So I guess I have to live with it."

"I could get you blood." Astor's interjection is quick, unexpected in both earnestness and content. "The real thing."

"Oh -- no, honey." Darla's impressed, even as she has difficulty concealing a burgeoning sense of glee. "That's not right."

"No." Astor shakes her head, insistent. "It's okay. It would only be ---"

She swallows, forcing out the words.

"It would only be bad people."

Darla can feel her eyes expand in genuine surprise. The sheer thirst on display is so delightful, it's requiring herculean effort on her part to avoid giving away the game. But if death has taught her anything, it's patience. The more careful her investigation into what makes this girl tick, the more fruitful her eventual reward.

"That's..." Darla wrestles with her wording. It helps to fuel the conflict she's forced to pretend. "Better than I've been doing."

"You just --" Astor tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fascinated. "You just go after anybody?"

"I've been doing it since --" Darla tries for a funny face while acknowledging the horror. "Since I died."

Astor appears less than accepting of this. It's like she's juggling a double handful of broken glass, trying desperately to keep from cutting herself.

"I don't want to. Not any more." Darla takes a deep dramatic fake breath. "I think --"

She can see the path clearly now. It stretches out like a snake before her, almost farther than she can see. And while it may be the lowest, foulest act of prostitution she's ever engaged in, Darla doesn't hesitate. Even as she fights to sound halting and uncertain; on the cusp of some great revelation.

"I think I have a soul."

Astor frowns, visibly confused. "What does that matter?"

"When I woke up." Darla matches her puzzled frown, pretending to strive to recall. "The ones who made me --"

"Vampires." Astor emanates disbelief even as she says the word. Even as she's staring right at one, having a conversation. Darla thinks this has to be ironic in more than one sense.

"They said that we didn't have souls. That I was just like them. But I was never --" Darla's confusion turns to quiet despair. "I think they lied to me."

"It's okay!" Astor looks like she's fighting the urge to reach out and give her a hug. "It's over now. You don't have to --"

She stumbles to a halt. Darla can see the wheels turning in that young mind, a million different directions she can only begin to guess at.

"Do you remember..." Astor swallows, pulling her robe tighter. "How you died?"

Darla shakes her head.

"That last night --" She allows a stronger sense of doubt to creep in. "It's just a blur."

"It's okay," Astor repeats, a little too quickly. Like she doesn't want to know. Or already knows too much.

As far as who might have actually murdered this poor unfortunate's mother, Darla can speculate until the hellhounds come home. She's got a few theories already. But it's time to wrap this up, before she can screw it up. Always leave them wanting more.

"I understand not inviting me in. And I approve," Darla hastily adds. "But it's getting late. So I'll come back. And if you ever decide you want to see me --"

A light springs up in Astor's eyes, followed by natural and sensible doubt. But the seed has been planted.

"Prospect Industrial Park. East side, off the expressway." Darla manages once more to convey that horrible sense of motherly assurance. "Say it back to me."

Astor dutifully does so. Darla nods, satisfied beyond hope.

"And we do need to talk." It's a gentle touch that she adds. The lightest shade of authority to color her words, while remaining noticeably unsure of her own knowledge. "Because I heard the others --"

"Other vampires." Astor sounds more careful now. Verifying a known fact.

"They were saying -- a lot of things I didn't understand. But I think --" Darla conveys a sense of urgency and excitement, leaning close up against the invisible barrier separating them. "They were talking about you."

"What --" Astor swallows. "What did they call me?"

Darla pauses. Allowing the suspense to build; wringing full awe and mystery from each word that falls from her ruby red lips.

"The Slayer."

  


* * *

  


Astor's been sitting and staring for at least a few minutes. They'd said their tearful and heartfelt goodbyes, promising to meet again soon, before Mom had turned and leapt from the outside ledge, vanishing into the dark beyond.

Her candle still flickers in the breeze from the open window. Astor blinks, then quickly leans over and cups a hand behind the flame to blow it out. The last thing they need is for her carelessness to cost them everything. Burn this beautiful house to the ground.

Everything's happening way too fast. It all seems too good to be true. Worse, it feels like a trap. Exactly the sort of perfectly baited hook an experienced angler would rely on to reel her in.

But so many more things are starting to make sense. Or at least fit into the picture, now slowly beginning to emerge. Those crazy dreams; her newfound obsession with whittling weird primitive weapons. Dexter's attitude. That strange woman stalking her, making cryptic remarks.

The scariest part isn't vampires being real. It's everything else that might be.

Astor pulls the window shut, feeling goose bumps under her bathrobe. She still can't decide how to deal with Dexter. Even before Mom showed up again, trying to have a friendly conversation, Astor had found herself succumbing to her own weakness. Breaking down; actually _talking_ to the man who murdered Mom. Saying things that scared herself. Things she's been holding inside for too long.

Dexter clearly knows more about vampires than Brian. Except she still doesn't want to trust him. The only thing she wants from him is to learn all she can, before seeing him gone. For good this time.

She keeps replaying that brief and bloody fight. Analyzing every detail she can glean from her memory, contrasting it with the tightly choreographed fictional bloodshed of the movies. And the thing she keeps coming back to is how it all began. When Dexter explicitly and intentionally invited a vampire into the house.

The biggest wonder is the why of it. Other than fighting on home turf, she can't see any tactical advantage to allowing a stronger opponent inside your otherwise impregnable fortress. Although vampires can probably figure out guns and grenades.

Was Dexter trying to teach her some kind of lesson?

Dexter knew that guy. Had called him by name. Hadn't been at all surprised to see Mom come back from the dead, as a literal bloodsucking fiend. Whereas Brian seems utterly at a loss to explain or take charge of an increasingly complex and chaotic situation. It doesn't cause her confidence in him to crumble, precisely. But her once solid foundation has definitely been shaken more than she ever thought possible.

She's always known Brian is just as weird as Dexter. Maybe more so, in his own way. He just hides it better. It was why he'd taken the risk of revealing himself to her. Because together, they can help each other stay on the path of the Code. They can balance out his brother's murderous mistakes.

Make the world a better place.

She still remembers when he told her Jessie had moved away.

 _Why?_ It was all she could do to keep from screaming. _Why would he not even say anything?_

 _I know._ Brian was getting a can of condensed milk out of the pantry. As if hot cocoa would solve everything.

 _But you know boys,_ he continued. He sounded sad as his long, nimble fingers poked holes in the can, pouring milk into a pair of mugs. _Most of them are only interested in one thing._

Astor didn't bother to hide her bitterness. _Like you?_

Brian hadn't said anything, but she thought he seemed hurt. They hadn't spoken again all that night. The only difference was that two weeks later, he informed Astor that her home cirriculum now had to include a health and human sexuality unit. The less said about that, the better.

She draws the curtains shut and climbs down from the window. The carpet is soft and warm beneath her bare feet as she walks over to her desk, with a brief detour around the still damp spot in the middle. She's pretty sure she got most of the stain out, but she'll have to check it again in the morning. Someone must know all the things that make vampire blood different from her own.

Like that strange woman. Stalking her, making cryptic remarks.

 _Great,_ Astor thinks as she sits down and fires up her laptop. Someone else she has to milk for information while telling only part of the truth. At least Mom's ghost had provided some warning. That first meeting with her new bloodthirsty self could have gone a lot worse.

She brings up a satellite map of the city, zooming into the east. The expressway is long enough that it takes a minute to find something that looks right. At maximum magnification, the buildings and parking lots resemble the remains of a once great city, bombed past all recognition. A quick web search in another tab confirms the address of Prospect Park. A former commercial zone, the original fabrication plants had never been completely demolished when the white collar crowd moved in, and the entire area was abandoned and condemned five years ago after a succession of dot-com bubbles. The mayor claimed that without federal assistance it was neither prudent nor cost effective to clean up and rebuild. From public nuisance, to public menace.

She remembers the one time she and Mom were at a drug dealer's house without realizing it. Paul had been gone a long time in the other room, and she can't believe it took them so long to see how everyone else was rubbing their arms, staring and pawing themselves like monkeys with a bad case of fleas. She spent forever in the shower that night, using up all the hot water in a futile attempt to scrub away the icky feelings.

Walking into a den full of vampires sounds a million times worse. Even if one of them is on your side, or trying to be. And the worst thing of all is just how tempting this crazy idea seems. Far more than it should to any logical person.

Astor's no hero. No wielder of great and mysterious power with which to smite her foes. It seems like the height of arrogance to imagine herself being chosen for anything more special than a shampoo commercial.

But if that stalker chick shows up again?

She might be willing to listen.

For a little while.

  


* * *

  


_Original Universe_

"Did you finish your chores?" Astor doesn't look over at the chart on the wall they've been using. Cody's fidgeting tells her everything she needs to know.

"I know you don't like doing the bathroom." She softens her tone, resisting the urge to put a hand on his shoulder. He's starting to get antsy about that sort of thing. "But we said we'd take turns."

"I know." Cody's looking emotionally fragile again. His hair is growing, along with the rest of him. It's kind of cool how tall he's getting. Astor wonders if he'll catch up to her at some point.

If Astor's not careful, he might cry. She always hates that. Mostly because of how helpless it leaves her feeling. For all her power as a Slayer, there are far too many foes against whom all that strength is meaningless. It's like all the worst parts of her childhood, combined and magnified.

"I'll do the tub." Astor gives him a reassuring nod, the matter settled. "You can do the rest."

Cody hesitates. "I thought you were watching Harrison."

"He's fine." She tries to sound resolute and slightly stern. "Let's just get it done."

It doesn't take long. It never does, even with only one person. Astor spends the whole time scrubbing and thinking. Trying not to imagine the worst as she takes her time, polishing the faucets until they gleam.

It's not as though Lumen's always been totally trustworthy. The rocky start to their relationship had been further complicated by an abrupt swerve off the road into the uncharted territory of the undead. What was funny was how quickly it all came to seem totally normal. The bond between them had only been cemented when the vampire's ex-fiancee poisoned her, necessitating Astor's allowing her stepmother to drink directly from her. Lumen had survived, at the relatively small price of developing a permanent allergy to human blood. And life continued as before, albeit with more frequent trips to the butcher shop.

It only makes things easier. As Lumen puts it, there's no reason to risk it when perfectly good alternatives are available. But it has to be hard. Has to be tempting, being this close to everything your body screams for. Maybe more so when you can't have it.

If Astor was really worried, she'd take the boys and run. And she can't see much call for it. Not when she can still kick Lumen's ass four times out of five. And that's her being nice.

At least the demons in her neighborhood are being well behaved. So far, Astor hasn't seen a single sign of trouble in all her patrols. Compared to that harrowing first year she and Dexter spent being introduced to the world of the supernatural, it all seems a bit boring. Lumen insists -- quite stubbornly, for her -- that boring is good. That drama belongs in Hollywood. And even at her relatively tender age, Astor is more than capable of seeing the wisdom in that. After the horrific start to her career as a Slayer, fighting a vampire who was the spitting image of her her own dead mother, she'd been having fun. Treating it like a game; reveling in her amazing new powers.

Until she killed a man.

She hadn't meant to. And no honest court would call it murder, not in any degree. But the memory hangs over her conscience regardless. Without another Slayer to spar with, or any foe that comes even close to a challenge, she's been feeling ever more keenly the presence of the demon inside her. It hadn't been all that shocking to be told that her powers came from the very essence of the things she was supposed to be fighting. Not when it was presented in a fashion so matter of fact that Astor could only nod as they moved on, thinking to herself: _Sounds about right._

She and Lumen are doing fine. Everything is going as well as it possibly can without Dexter. But the notion of confronting her stepmother with this level of accusation, however gentle and diplomatic the approach, leaves Astor more than cold. If they have to have that conversation in the first place, things are already too far gone.

That leaves run. Or fight. Neither option in the least bit appealing to her nature, as a teenager or a Slayer.

"That looks fine." She nods to Cody as she pulls off her gloves, nose wrinkling at the smell of latex. "Go put your check mark up."

Cody nods back, looking eager. "Can Nathan come over for dinner?"

"Maybe." Astor doesn't inquire as to why he's not asking Lumen. "Can you put Harrison down? So he's up by dinnertime?"

Cody exudes dubiousness. "I can try."

Lumen's sitting cross legged on the couch when they come out, watching Harrison stand at the coffee table playing with his blocks. Her blonde hair is tied back in a braid rather than the usual loose ponytail, lending her a more gaunt and severe appearance. Still, she smiles when she looks up and sees them.

"You want tacos?" Lumen sounds both hopeful and headachey. "If you didn't, I was just going to order pizza."

"Tacos!" Cody yells, a little too loud. Astor glares down at him, but he's already looking guilty at Lumen's resulting wince.

"Sorry." Astor offers the apology for him. "You want some help?"

"I got everything prepped." Lumen's grin is small but smug. "You can help set it out."

"Well, that's cheating." Astor offers a token fake disgruntlement. "That takes like two seconds."

She watches Cody working to convince Harrison that the bedroom is the place to be. It doesn't take much, and Harry toddles gracefully away, clutching his big brother's hand. 

"Want to watch a movie?" Lumen's sounding hopeful again. "Make some popcorn?"

Astor tries not to look skeptical. "You're gonna try to eat again?" 

Lumen shakes her head, reaching for the remote. "Probably best if I stick with the liquid lunch."

Being drained of so much blood had been a frightening experience. It's one that Astor never wants to repeat. But it also made her feel safe and secure, looking up to see fear and love in those shining undead eyes. Along with unbelievable gratitude; the profound awareness of a debt that could never be repaid.

She owes Lumen this much. Honesty is where it all starts. Dexter lied; Mom died. Somehow, they'd gotten past it. And then he disappeared. Just when they had to say goodbye to Mom all over again.

Whatever might be said about Lumen -- and she's far from perfect -- she's never killed a human.

That's more than Astor can say.

"So?" She plops down next to her stepmother, casually pulling the comforter over their conjoined laps. "What are we watching?"

"That depends." Lumen raises an eyebrow, pointing the remote at the screen like an old West gunfighter. "You want romance or action?"

"I don't care." Astor offers a bored teenage shrug. "I just want a happy ending."

  


* * *

  


Of all the gas stations along the expressway leading south into Miami, Faith's pretty sure this has to be the worst. The rudest cashier, the shittiest donuts, and the absolute bottom tier selection of alcohol. Mostly because it would be just her luck.

Then again, life is already a shit sundae. No need for the cherry of negative thoughts.

Joking aside, it does seem like almost every moment has been a struggle for survival. Before and after becoming a Slayer; before and after losing her first and only real love. At least in the sense of all that mushy shit. Right from the start she's had to grow up fast. Throw aside romantic childhood notions, as if she had any left. Those are for the movies. For people with better luck, and a whole lot less baggage.

Not all of her lessons came soon enough. But she's hoping to avoid any more collateral damage.

She raps on the side of the van, poking her head through the driver's side window. "You decent?"

A groan issues from the dark depths of the back.

"For fuck's sake," Faith growls. "I've been up all night. It's two hours to sunrise, and I can barely see the lines on the road. I need a power cat nap. Or at least a kitten."

Another groan turns into a grunt of effort. "Give me a minute."

Faith can't ask for more. Both of them are making the best of a bad situation.

"Need anything?"

A snort comes from inside, accompanied by the creak of leather. "A new body."

Faith lets that pass. She's still waiting to see if her latest stolen credit card has been flagged. Having to leave town in a hurry is never a fun time. And if they aren't being led astray, then Miami is the end of the line.

Luckily the card passes muster. She opens the door and slides into the passenger seat, ready to crash.

"Uh-uh." A glowing stone slightly smaller than a golf ball is abruptly thrust in her face. "If I have to drive?"

Slender fingers release the stone, letting it fall into Faith's lap.

"You're giving me directions."

"Shit," Faith mumbles. "All right."

"I can't do both at once." The voice is quietly apologetic.

The man behind the wheel stares back at Faith, icy blue eyes atop stunningly sunken cheekbones. His youthful face is crowned with curling, somewhat shaggy brown hair, bearing an inch or more of bleached blonde at the tips. The only sign of color in his clothing is the red turtleneck under a sweeping leather trenchcoat. Otherwise his attire is wholly black, down to the socks and liberally scuffed combat boots.

Faith eyes him critically. "You straight?"

"Very funny." The man holds up a plastic blood bag, stuffing it back in his coat pocket. "Buckle up."

Faith complies, not looking away. "Last one?"

He grips the wheel, voice growing notably harder. "I'll manage."

"I meant what I said." Faith manages to sound gentle. He looks over at her, openly suspicious. "I trust you."

His throat bobs, his gaze falling to her open collar. "I don't."

Faith shrugs. She's never been much of a talker. At this point, she's done all she can.

"Gee, Faith. I'm really glad we had this talk." The man's uncertainty has fled, his handsome features reflecting undiluted sarcasm. "Really glad you don't have a death wish or anything."

"What I got?" Faith snaps, immediately testy. "Is a job to do."

The reproving look comes right on schedule. "She's a person."

Faith looks away, unable to maintain the glare. Even she's got her limits.

"I appreciate the offer," he continues, more softly. "But I'd rather not."

"Jesus!" Faith can't believe this. Apparently she hasn't heard everything. "It's not like you're cheating. It's called fuckin' survival --"

"It's intimate, okay?" He's taken the initiative in glaring head on, giving no sign of retreat. "You can at least admit that much."

"Like a foot massage?" Faith barrels on, riding roughshod over his attempted interruption. "How long are you gonna stay faithful to a ghost?"

The cold face that looks back at her might as well be carved from the granite side of a mountain. Faith holds up the glowing piece of rock, pulsing like a beacon in her fingers.

"Might want to get a move on." She gives a nod out the window. The horizon is still shrouded in darkness.

"Says the poster girl for not moving on."

His glare fades, leaving only weary resignation.

"Give me the keys."

  


* * *

  


Starlight filters down, dancing on the water's surface. The view from the pool room is always spectacular, but Brian thinks it's best during the height of midsummer. With the trees decked out in full foliage, the country club across the lake is utterly invisible. Easier to pretend they're in the middle of nowhere. Far away from the world and all its problems.

The main problem is he's still feeling wired, as he put it to Dexter. Like a two-twenty circuit. He'd actually hit thirty laps in the pool before hauling himself out with a gasp, waiting for his core temperature to adjust before climbing into the hot tub. He's been sitting there ever since. He knows it's been close to the maximum recommended time, because the water's gone from hot to feeling downright tepid.

_"Bet I can warm that up for you."_

Deb grins as she leans over the side of the tub. The pert little nubs of her chest are on full display in that red bikini from the photograph. It matches the open wound in the lower left side of her thorax. The hole is clean, diamond-shaped, magically free of any blood that might obscure the view. Brian can see muscle inside, a glint of white from the bone of her ribs.

 _"Yoo hoo."_ Deb giggles, crooking an inviting index finger. _"Up periscope."_

"Okay." Brian's reply is quiet, if not entirely confident. "So if vampires are real --"

 _"Are you telling me I might be real?"_ Deb snorts and shakes her head. _"Color me shocked."_

"You have to admit this is a bit awkward." Brian reaches over and pushes a button on the panel, turning the jets on low. It'll help mask the sound of this one-sided conversation. From anyone else's perspective.

 _"You doubt me, huh?"_ Deb looks down at the ragged hole in her side and back up at him, wearing a sassy smirk. _"Let's get this party started."_

"I know how that goes." Brian shifts to the higher seat, keeping himself partly submerged. Deb's devilish gaze falls to his crotch, now obscured by the white churn of the waterjets.

"You can't touch me." Brian states this as though it were a material fact of the universe. Unchanging, absolute. "And I can't touch you."

 _"More's the pity."_ Deb clucks her tongue, even as it sharpens. _"But I'm not the one you have to worry about."_

"Oh?" Brian's a little surprised at how calm he sounds.

 _"Because there are plenty of people out there who can touch you."_ Deb's smile is gone, her expression matching the ugliness in her voice. _"In ways you're not going to like."_

"Is that a warning?" Brian tries to sound like he's giving her the benefit of doubt. "Or a threat?"

 _"Warnings are for people smart enough to listen."_ Deb leans closer in, her ghostly glare boring through him. _"And you've always been a smart boy. But big brains aren't gonna be enough. Not to save you from the stew pot --"_

A squeak resounds throughout the cavernous room. Brian realizes Dexter is poking his head in from the hallway. 

"Where does this saucepan go?"

"Give me a second." Brian waves and turns off the jets, climbing out and grabbing his towel. "I should be done anyway."

Dexter nods and shuts the door.

 _"How domestic."_ Deb sneers with undisguised condescension. _"Dare I say...domesticated?"_

Brian tries to ignore her as he finishes drying off. It's not easy. Especially when she trots ahead of him all the way to the kitchen, glancing back over her shoulder, snickering at his failed attempts to avoid looking at her ass. Dexter is sitting at the kitchen table when he comes in, gazing out the window with a melancholy expression.

"It's this cupboard." Brian opens the door, leaving it ajar until Dexter glances over. "How did you learn about vampires?"

"You mean real ones?" Dexter shrugs, looking slightly helpless. "I feel like I just sort of...stumbled into it."

"People stumble into puddles." Brian feels worse than naked, standing there dripping in his baggy black swimtrunks. "Maybe fall down a well. If they don't look where they're going."

It takes a moment to identify the look on Dexter's face. But it's almost as though he's listening to someone else.

Someone Brian can't even see.

  


* * *

  


_"Be careful, son."_ Harry zeroes in on Brian, standing over by the sink.

For all that I've managed to glean about this world and its inhabitants, I'm still more in the dark than I am illuminated. And while my father's spirit does appear to be at least somewhat on my side, I remain loathe to mention his existence to anyone apart from Astor. Not without a hell of a lot more trust.

"How did I not know about any of this?" Brian's look is one of utter bafflement. The tight and drying curls of his hair lay somewhat haphazardly, contributing to his disheveled and deranged appearance. "How long have you known?"

"It doesn't feel like that long," I say. Which is perfectly true. It's been less than two years since my already interesting life was made even more so by the discovery of things that go bump in the night. 

"There's got to be something we can do to jog your memory." Brian's eyes are feverish, burning with intense curiosity. "Hypnosis. Automatic writing --"

I nod and try to look interested as my brother rambles on. But I can feel the invisible walls beginning to close in all around. I'm running out of wiggle room. Once he accepts the possibility of alternate universes, of alternate selves, I'll be pinned down. Maybe lose most of my value when he realizes I'm not the genuine article, from his perspective.

It depends how much he needs the original. I could well be an improvement over the Dexter he once knew. It all depends on my motivation and intentions. And the same is true for him. All I need is some solid piece of evidence. Anything to show he can be trusted to at least try to do the right thing.

"God -- listen to me." Brian breaks off with a laugh. "Maybe I should just stay up. I've got the day off."

I shift in my chair. It's a casual movement, but allows me to see Harry in my peripheral vision. He's staring at Brian like an angry dog, chained and forced to watch a cat stalking unwitting prey. Ready to pounce and devour.

Or maybe he's not looking at Brian.

"So you've never had anything happen that couldn't be explained by science." I don't make it a question. "Until now."

His eyes flick to the right. "Not even close."

A micromovement at most. And yet, it moves.

I turn to look at Harry, under the guise of staring out the window. He meets my gaze with a terse nod.

 _"There's something there, Dex."_ Harry's certainty is nothing next to the overwhelming sense of trepidation. _"I don't know what it is. But I don't like it."_

I continue pretending to stare, my mind racing ten miles a minute if it's a meter. If knowledge of the supernatural were compared to building a house, I wouldn't be able to put together even a basic tiny one. Plumbing, electrical work, even construction are all beyond my ken. At most I can manage a basic lean-to that won't blow away all that easily. And when it comes to mystical research, I've always relied on others in the Scooby gang to do the the heavy lifting. Physical and otherwise.

I wonder how Astor and Lumen are handling things in my absence. If they're in contact with Faith and the rest of the Watcher's Council, searching for a way to bring me home. Then again, an organization like that may have other priorities. No matter how much the current leadership are now kinder, gentler and more progressive.

A loud bang comes from the front room. Brian and I are both turning in that direction when another assertive impact follows the first, echoing through the house. I realize it's the sound of the metal knocker that hangs outside on the front door. That thing must be heavier than it looks.

I look over to Brian. "Expecting anyone?"

He shakes his head, staring back at me.

"Would vampires knock?"

  


* * *

  


"Well, that went splendid."

The would-be cat burglar tips an imaginary shot glass to an equally fictional audience. A wince runs over her face as she gives her right shoulder a wiggle, testing for stability.

"A fine performance." She rolls her eyes at some imagined scoff or slight. "To be fair -- wasn't expecting much. No excuse for getting sloppy, though."

Weighing her options doesn't leave much. No surprise she'd failed the magics at a crucial moment. It's more galling to have the cloaking spell seen through by a rank tyro with good instincts. But clearly this is not the first rodeo for Cooper's mysterious houseguest.

That's all she needs. Some well-meaning yuppie, who knows enough to be more of a danger to himself or others.

Except that boy can definitely fight. For all her hard-earned cunning and dirty tricks, she might not have walked away if they'd both been going all out. And that would have been a right royal bitch for everyone concerned. She knows how hard it can be to hide a body. Especially on short notice.

She hadn't lied to him. She's not done investigating Cooper. But the preferred path has disappeared. No matter which way she turns, it's only lesser evils.

In the end, it's the mysterious stranger that tips the balance. If nothing else, he knows all the right words. Speaks of Slayers and Watchers. Good intentions, if a bit naive for someone with his skills. And those were some skills. Now that she knows what she's up against, even in her current state, she can see taking him on. Maybe.

"Spirits willing," she murmurs, peering out from the trees. It all seems quiet enough. Not a sound from the house since Cooper and the girl got back. Who knows what they're discussing in there?

Screw it.

Her own instincts have rarely failed. And right now, they're telling her to go for broke. March up and knock on that door, demanding to speak to all concerned parties. Because things have gone too far to play it safe. And whoever this stranger is, he's definitely concerned about the next Slayer. It makes her feel better knowing someone is.

She rises from her crouch, pointlessly brushing dirt from her black jeans. The motion sensors spot her as soon as she emerges from the treeline, the lights on either side of the front door springing to life. In the center looms the great brass knocker, the gargoyle's mouth open wide.

"Right, then." She takes a deep breath of sweet night air. Relishing every moment, every scrap of scent. "Out of the frying pan."

  


* * *

  


Lumen does her best to ignore the annoying presence at her back as she stares out the window. The concrete lot outside is blasted and burned, littered with a layer of broken glass that stretches from edge to edge in a great and shining sea. It's not much, but it beats the interior decorating around here.

"She's not coming back." She delivers this without turning round, addressing the reflections in the window. "She's going to take that girl. Run right off, and leave you here with me."

She's not surprised by the lack of response. The real surprise would be any reply at all. With Darla not here to loosen her tongue, getting a word out of her second is more effort than pulling teeth. And not half as fun.

"We'll see how long it takes." Lumen allows a touch of venom to find its way in. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"And then what?"

Lumen turns with an incredulous look. Rachel sits perched on the edge of Darla's enormous executive desk, idly swinging her feet.

"I mean -- I'm not working for you." Rachel shrugs, as though it's blatantly self-evident. "No matter what happens."

"Never say never." A tight and ugly smile spreads over Lumen's face. "I don't suppose you'd put your money where that mouth is."

Rachel regards her for a moment. Lumen thinks she's about to speak, when the other woman merely shrugs.

"Didn't think so." Lumen turns back to the window, staring out at the lights of the city, far off in the distance.

She doesn't trust Darla either. It's the one thing they have in common. The only difference is that Rachel's mistrust of her mistress is minimal, something barely worth mentioning. With Lumen, it's more of an unhealthy majority.

She's never put much stock in prophecies. But the road ahead is all too clearly visible. This mortal girl is her potential replacement, and more. If Lumen allows herself to be squeezed out, she'll be lucky to meet her end at the point of a stake. More likely she'll be thrown into the pit, mangled and mauled until finally she's torn to pieces. And all her mad and desperate fight to survive will have been for naught.

There's no way Dexter can be an ally. Let alone a friend.

But as the enemy of her enemies?

He'll do just fine.

  


* * *

  


As many times as they've been over the video, Angel can't figure it out. He's also getting a headache, which Vince blames on the laptop display. It's for both these reasons that Angel suggests running down to the corner cutrate for supplies.

"I've got plenty here." Vince is scribbling something in a notebook. He's still running the video, trying to see exactly what happens as the invisible woman fades into being.

"From the health food store," Angel points out. "When a man wants junk food, there is no substitute."

"Then get me one of those instant mochas. A small," Vince adds. "I can cut it with coffee."

Angel narrows his eyes. "I thought you didn't have any coffee."

"I never said that." Vince taps his cheek as he stares at the screen. "It's just not decaf."

Angel scowls, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Does it really matter at this point?"

"Probably not." Vince leans back on the couch, grinding his knuckles into his eyes. "Make it a large."

Angel's shaking his head as he exits the apartment. He's halfway down the stairs when a new sedan pulls into the parking space below, too fast for comfort. Any other driver he might have to hassle. This one, he knows.

"What's going on?" Angel's already dreading the response. Doakes wears the look of a man haunted by apocalyptic visions, watching the last vestiges of all he once knew crumbling before his eyes.

"Get over here," Doakes hisses. His beefy arm gestures in a semaphore, disappearing back inside the window.

Angel doesn't think they're about to go out like Thelma and Louise. Still, he leaves the passenger door ajar as he climbs in.

"Well -- I know you got something." Angel conveys pride in his colleague, even as he dreads the results of the man's tenacity. "Show me."

The folder Doakes pulls from under the seat is magenta. Angel's seen it before, on many occasions. It's one of the thousands of color coded files regarding the Bay Harbor Butcher. Magenta stands for murder. Which may seem redundant, but in practice works out rather well.

"I know what I'm looking at." Angel squirms, trying in vain to get comfortable in the comparatively tiny seat. "What am I looking for?"

Doakes snorts, gazing up at the lit apartment window. Angel thinks he almost seems lonely.

"Kept thinking about Masuka." Doakes looks over as Angel opens the folder. "How he wouldn't sign off on the Butcher?"

"I remember." Angel hadn't been the only one silently cheering Vince on from the sidelines. But in the end, peer pressure won the day. Just like it always did.

"Fucked the dog for a week on that report. And still had to get his little note in." Doakes sneers at the memory, his swaying hands and shoulders mimicking a prancing jester. " _Not consistent with suicide._ Remember that?"

"Now that you mention it." Angel flips through, verifying the notation on the last page. "What's your take?"

Doakes half turns in his seat with a look of foreboding. "Don't fuck me on this."

"Bro, I am in. We are all in. All the way." Angel nods, hoping he looks encouraging.

Doakes grips the steering wheel. An ominous creak issues from inside its column.

"We know that psycho was there." He turns that searing stare on Angel, then down at the folder in his lap. "Multiple physical tests. ID'd up the ass, forward and back. The one goddamn thing we can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"No chain of custody problems there." Angel remembers the ironclad security protocol surrounding Dexter's body. From discovery to cremation, multiple witnesses were required to sign off at every stage. Any deviation would have meant immediate firing and probable prosecution.

"And now we see him again. And you know what it makes me think?" Doakes is staring through the windshield of his unmoving car, as if mesmerized by some great and terrible juggernaut bearing down. "It makes me think of that other fucking theory of Masuka's."

Something vaguely tries to click in Angel's thoughts. Something Vince had said early on, during those first few crucial hours of the investigation.

"Because I know that fucker was dead." Doakes sounds calm and conversational, his smile nearly approaching normal. "Bled out in that bedroom. Burned up like a crispy critter when they cremated his ass."

"Jesus." Angel shakes his head.

"Man's got nothing to do with it." Doakes shakes his head. "So yeah. Morgan cut up his own sister. And he slit his girlfriend's throat. But you know what he didn't do?"

Angel looks down at the note in the margin, bearing Vince's initials. 

"He didn't kill himself?"

"Give the man a Kewpie doll." Doakes hesitates before meeting his gaze. Angel can see it coming.

"You knew?"

"Suspected." Doakes actually looks slightly ashamed. "Stayed quiet."

"I understand." Angel doesn't dwell on the past.

"Beauty of it is -- we've got no proof." Doakes looks more disgusted than angry. "The perfect cover up."

A spark flares into life before landing on stray tinder, flickering into flame inside Angel's thoughts. "But that would mean --"

"There's still someone else out there." Doakes nods, decidedly ill. "One more thing Masuka was right on. And why did LaGuerta make him take all that shit out?"

"Because it wasn't consistent with the other cases." The light is beginning to dawn. And the more Angel sees, the worse it looks. "Because we had to tie those in. To wrap it all up."

Angel can feel himself preparing to make the last and greatest leap.

"Because it only would have made sense if --"

He swallows, meeting the other man's gaze. Doakes looks absolutely rabid; ready to commit murder himself, as he gives voice to the unspeakable.

"If the Butcher wasn't acting alone."

  


* * *

  


I follow close behind as Brian heads for the front door. Then I hear rapid and quiet footsteps from the side hall, see Astor enter the sitting room a split second before us. She glides up to the door and glues her eye to the peephole, biting her lower lip.

I realize Brian and I aren't breathing. Astor turns with wide eyes and motions us toward the living room with frantic silent gestures, scurrying on ahead.

"It's her!" Astor's voice is a low hiss as she stares up at us. Two grown men, towering over her comparatively tiny form. "That stalker lady!"

"Stay here." Brian places a warning hand on my arm, looking more brave than he sounds. "I'll handle this."

It would be interesting to see them fight. I'll have to see if we can avoid that.

Brian gives us both a final look of warning before reaching out to take Astor's hand. "Come on."

Astor shakes him off and disappears round the corner. I press back against the wall as he follows. Breathing slow through my open mouth, as I focus on maintaining total silence.

"Hello?" Brian seems unduly confused. Not asleep, but definitely distracted.

"Right." The woman's tone is brisk. All business, no nonsense. "We need to talk. And when I say we, I mean the whole family. Houseguest included."

"I --" Brian's already floundering, left far behind in the dust kicked up by her wake. 

"Don't bother, mate." A touch of knowing humor, of someone far more in on the joke. "You're not the only one with more than one face."

Brian finds his speech center. "I really don't --"

"He always like this?"

I envision her wry smile in my mind, the blank and stone faced stare from Astor in response. It's not hard to imagine. 

"My daughter and I live alone." Brian's managed to assemble the shreds of his dignity into something more than a fig leaf. Maybe a loincloth.

"My pleasingly proportioned arse." All friendliness has fled. The woman's accent is growing stronger now, her words harsh and guttural. "Got yourself a Slayer there. And if either of you expect to live out the week, you'd best be paying close attention when someone comes along who knows what they're talking ab--"

The puttering roar of an ailing V-6 grows to a deafening crescendo, projected through the open front door like a megaphone as steel belted radials come to a screeching halt. I hear a twin shriek of rusted metal, dual echoing slams of car doors just slightly off kilter.

"Oh, balls."

  


* * *

  


Astor has no idea what's going on. But as far as she's concerned, she's having way too much trouble keeping herself from breaking into a grin at the way this stranger is verbally manhandling Brian from the moment of first contact. It's not often the great Doctor Cooper is stymied.

She's just wondering what Dexter makes of all this, vaguely aware of the sound of an approaching engine, when a dingy white van pulls into the driveway, accelerates in a tight semicircle and squeals to a stop. She can feel Brian tense up as two figures hop out of the vehicle, moving quickly and with clear intent. Like they're executioners on a schedule.

"Oh, balls."

Stalker Lady's reaction is in stark contrast to her previous tone of stern authority. Astor's on the verge of a tremendous belly laugh at the fast multiplying grownup insanity.

Except suddenly, everything is happening.

Happening way too fast.

She can hear Dexter, coming out of the living room right behind her. Brian is standing on her right, moving closer to shield her against any attack.

Except stalker lady isn't even looking at Astor. She turns and dives for the open door, flying under Brian's outstretched arms, tumbling and skidding along the hardwood floor.

Dexter reaches out. Catches her and hangs on, barely managing to remain standing.

Astor turns to see a man running straight at them. His handsome face contorted with rage; long leather coat flapping behind with each frantic movement, bouncing like his shaggy two-tone hair.

Like the way he hits the open doorway and bounces off.

He lands at least a dozen feet from the door, a groaning pile of jumbled and contorted limbs. But the woman isn't stopping. She's wearing her own leather jacket, in the buckled biker style; her lush brunette hair spilling over her shoulders in long, loose waves. And she doesn't look any happier than her companion.

Astor remembers. They need an invitation --

Her heart nearly leaps from her chest as the woman comes barreling over the threshold and through the unseen barrier, flinging Brian out of her way with all the casual grace of a defensive lineman. It's like watching a charging elephant moving at the speed of a cheetah. Astor thought she was paralyzed before. Now she feels locked inside her body.

_"Faith!"_

Dexter stands in front of the stalker lady. His hands are upraised, a look of desperation on his normally stoic features. Any hesitation the newcomer might feel at being recognized doesn't last long. She's already grabbing him by his shirt, hurling him into the living room like a child's toy.

The scariest part is how obviously the woman is holding back. All too clear to Astor, how deliberately this chick is failing to unleash her full strength. No way she can face that kind of power. Not with a cannon.

The woman in leather kneels down, grabbing the stalker lady. Hauling her upright by the scruff of her neck, the waist of her jeans.

Astor wants to break free. Shake off this numbness, run up and kick the new girl in the shins. Anything to be a distraction for one crucial moment. But she doesn't know who the good guys are.

Maybe there aren't any.

Brian grabs the machete from the hat stand. He unzips the sheath and throws it to one side, raising the blade.

The new girl ignores him. She turns, rears back and heaves ho, launching a startled stalker lady through the air, straight out the open front door. The resulting yell of pain would be hilarious if Brian weren't taking tiny steps forward, preparing to launch a doomed kamikaze attack.

That's the only outcome Astor can see if he actually tries anything. But their attacker is already on the move. Breaking into a run, following her thrown victim back outside.

Brian's calling her name. Astor doesn't listen. She runs to the door, staring in fascination at the struggling figures in the driveway. The man in the trenchcoat is yelling something in a language Astor doesn't recognize, grabbing stalker lady by the throat. Drawing his hand back in a fist --

An electric sizzle fills the air. Astor's expecting sparks, or fire. What she's not expecting is for leather chick to be flung backward by some invisible force. Or for the other two crazy grownups to freeze where they are, heads thrown back, their glowing eyes suddenly joined by shimmering ribbons of color.

Dexter and Brian have joined her at the door, standing to either side. She wasn't expecting Brian to know anything about what's going on. But for once, Dexter appears equally baffled. Whatever it is, it looks painful. Azure flowing from man to woman; crimson streaming in reverse.

The streams reach a climax of brightness. Astor can barely see as a silent shriek seems to resonate throughout her skull. Purple smears float before her vision, afterimages slowly fading from sight.

"Son of a --"

Astor gapes at the ridiculous spectacle. She can tell Brian and Dexter are doing the same. Because the formerly helpless woman who was being attacked by an angry and rather hot guy has just stood up and belted the guy right across his finely chiseled chops.

Leather girl's on her feet again, watching from a safe distance. From her look of grim satisfaction, she doesn't appear inclined to interfere. Not that stalker lady needs any help. She's wailing away on this poor sap like a redheaded stepchild, so mad it's affecting her aim. What's weird is he doesn't try to defend himself. Just crumples to the ground beneath her assault, staring up at her without a word.

A hard slap lands across his cheek. The woman grabs his lapel, reaching inside his coat.

Astor's blood runs cold at the sight of a crude wooden stake, almost too large for the hand that holds it. The woman kneels before him and pulls his coat open, staring him down, pressing the point against his chest.

"Go on, then." The man chuckles through bruised lips. He doesn't sound whiney, or dramatic. Merely ready. "Probably for the best."

The woman's righteous anger remains. Even as Astor thinks for a moment she may cry.

"Fuck you."

She pulls back her hand, staring him down, then casually tosses the stake to one side. It lands on the asphalt with a clatter and rolls away.

"You don't get off that easy."

Astor realizes the woman's accent is gone. Even as the apparently British man shrugs, looking more resigned than relieved by this reprieval.

"So I've been told."


End file.
